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A 
CHASTE 

MAN 


NOVELS  BY  LOUIS  WILKINSON 

THE  BUFFOON 

A  CHASTE  MAN 

BRUTE  GODS 


A 
CHASTE 

MAN 


"80  dear  to  Heaven 
ii  iaintly  chastity...'' 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

MCMXX 


i 


I 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

Published,  August,  1917 

SfnJ  Printing,  January,  1920 


fKlXTKO  ZK   T9X   VVTtZV  STATKB  QT  AUXSXOA 


To 

JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 


.  .  Stillabat  Eloquium  .  .  . 


2138962 


A  CHASTE  MAN 


CHAPTER  I 

OLIVER  LAWRANCE  was  back  home  from  the 
Office.  He  lived  with  his  wife  in  a  house  of 
moderate  pretension  in  Chiswick ;  and  he  spent 
his  working  hours  on  the  premises  of  Ralston,  Inge  & 
Co., — an  amalgamation  for  business  purposes  of  two  en- 
terprises rather  surprisingly  diverse,  The  Occultists' 
Magazine  and  The  Applied  Arts'  Review. 

The  young  man  was  tired  and  a  little  morose.  As  he 
sat  on  a  chair  in  the  bathroom,  drying  his  hands,  he 
heard  the  teasing  echo  of  old  Ralston 's  voice,  with  its 
fatigued  insistence,  dictating  letters:  "We  shall  be 
glad,  therefore,  of  a  cheque  in  settlement  of  your  account 
with  us  at  your  early  convenience" — or  "at  your  earliest 
convenience" — or  "at  your  very  earliest  convenience": 
the  three  variations  of  formula,  repeated  day  after  day. 
Life  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  repetition  and  imitation. 
All  those  people  in  the  ' '  Tube ' '  train,  coming  home  from 
their  Offices  to  their  wives.  .  .  .  Business,  family;  fam- 
ily, business.  Awful,  when  it  struck  you.  And  these 
thoughts  themselves  were  being  daily  repeated  in  thou- 
sands of  minds. 

There  came  a  light  tap  at  the  door — how  well  Law- 
TAUce  knew  those  light  taps ! — and  his  wife  appeared,. 

9. 


10  A  CHASTE  MAN 

He  kissed  her,  wondering  as  he  did  so  at  the  substan- 
tiality of  the  fact  of  their  cohabitation. 

'  *  How  dear  of  you,  Doll ! "  she  said.    ' '  I  saw  it. ' ' 

"What  did  you  see,  eh?"  He  was  at  once  artificially 
bright. 

They  went  downstairs. 

*'You  know.    A  great — ^big — " 

**Ah!" 

"—bottle  of  fizz!" 

"Greedy  little  wretch!"  He  put  his  arm  round  her. 
"Fancy  your  noticing  that!" 

"Fancy!  And  how  could  I  help  it,  sir?  Right  in 
the  middle  of  the  table! — Doesn't  it  seem  weird  that  it 
was  three  years  ago  to-day  that  we  were  married  ? ' ' 

"Three  years  ago — ^yes — by  Jove — " 

He  tried  to  think  of  some  appropriately  playful  and 
affectionate  retort.  No  one  could,  with  a  more  sensible 
acuteness  than  his  wife,  have  rasped  the  exposed  nerves 
of  his  present  mood.  He  disliked  her  would-be  "bon 
camarade"  use  of  the  slang  term  "fizz"  for  champagne, 
and  the  way  she  dragged  in  the  word  "weird," — he  dis- 
liked that  kind  of  thing  in  her  extravagantly,  unreason- 
ably, morbidly,  though  he  was  not  by  nature  morbid. 
It  was  all,  he  thought,  because  he  knew  her  too  well,  be- 
cause of  this  business  of  their  living  together,  under  the 
same  roof,  year  in  and  year  out. 

"How  pretty  you  look  to-night,  darling!"  he  said  as 
they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  true.  Muriel  Lawrance  had  light,  soft  hair, 
with  a  tinge  of  light  gold ;  the  tone  of  her  blue  eyes  was 
clear,  her  colouring  was  delicate  and  fresh.  What  her 
husband  actually  thought  as  he  praised  her  looks  was: 


A  CHASTE  MAN  11 

"Your  mouth  is  too  small  and  tight,  there  isn't  enough 
of  your  hair;  there's  something  mean  about  your  eyes,  I 
wish  they  were  larger. ' ' 

Muriel  glanced  away  from  him,  smiling.  **0h,  of 
course,"  she  said.  "Today's  the  day  for  compliments. 
Compliments  and  champagne!" 

She  was  pleased.  Lawrance  reflected  that  little 
tributes  always  pleased  her,  that  the  incidentals  of  a 
light  and  innocent  flirtation  were  really  more  to  her  taste 
than  anything  else.  She  was  not  passionate:  it  would 
really  have  suited  her  to  have  gone  on  being  engaged  to 
him  forever.  His  dark  skin  flushed:  his  heavy  hot  un- 
derlip  twitched  with  a  suggestion  that  it  often  gave  of 
suffering  under  control. 

He  got  up  hurriedly,  so  that  she  should  not  notice. 
* '  One  minute, ' '  he  said.  "  I  've  something  to  show  you ' ' ; 
and  he  went  into  the  hall  to  get  from  his  overcoat  pocket 
the  trinket  he  had  bought  her. 

"Shut  your  eyes!"  he  cried  as  he  came  back,  and  as 
she  did  so  he  went  behind  her  and  put  his  gift  round  her 
pink  neck.  "Don't  open  them  yet."  He  fastened  the 
chain — a  chain  of  "Venetian  make,  with  coloured  half- 
precious  stones.     ' '  Now  you  can  look ! ' ' 

Muriel  exclaimed,  she  was  radiant,  she  kissed  him,  she 
went  to  the  glass. 

* '  How  pretty !  And  how  clever  of  you ! ' '  She  kissed 
him  again.  "And  I've  something  to  show  you!  "When 
we  go  to  dinner. ' ' 

He  kept  on  forcing  a  happy  exuberance  till  the  maid 
came  in  to  tell  them  that  dinner  was  ready.  The  starchy 
cleanliness  of  the  linen  was  stressed,  so  was  the  bright- 
ness of  the  silver,  the  pretty  orderliness  of  everything. 


12  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Muriel  had  evidently  concerned  herself.  By  Lawrance  's 
plate  there  was  a  little  package;  he  opened  it  at  once, 
and  found  a  pair  of  gold  cuff-links.  He  tried  to  thank 
his  wife  feelingly,  but  he  could  not :  he  aimed  at  making 
up  for  that  by  emphasis,  by  saying  too  much,  by  taking 
off  the  cuff-links  that  he  had  on  and  putting  the  others 
in  their  place.  She  went  over  and  helped  him;  he  bit 
his  lips  to  hide  his  irritation. 

"Oh,  what's  this?"  she  said  rather  sharply.  She 
tapped  the  edge  of  a  little  cardboard  box  that  showed 
protruding  from  one  of  his  inner  pockets. 

**0h !"  He  took  the  box  out,  instinctively  countering 
his  impulse  to  thrust  it  further  down.  * '  Do  you  want  to 
look  at  it  ?     Something  I  got  for  little  Olga  Flynn, ' ' 

*'0h,  no;  don't  trouble  to  undo  the  string."  She 
went  on  putting  in  his  cuff-link.  "There!"  She  sat 
down  again,  and  they  began  drinking  their  soup. 

* '  It 's  her  birthday  to-morrow,  you  know,  darling.  I  'm 
going  up  there  for  lunch  from  the  Office. ' ' 

"Yes." 

Lawrance  was  furious.  He  bitterly  contested  his 
wife's  right  to  her  jealousy.  It  was  not  fair  for  her  to 
be  of  cold  temperament  and  jealous  at  the  same  time.  It 
was  absurd,  he  had  known  Olga  since  she  was  a  very 
little  girl:  she  was  a  little  girl  still.  He  was  an  old 
friend  of  the  family.  Absurd.  Now  if  he  had  taken 
up  with  some  woman —  He  had  never  been  unfaithful 
to  Muriel,  and  that  reflection  angered  him  further.  Per- 
haps actual  patent  infidelities  were  the  only  means  of 
keeping  some  wives  in  order. 

"How  old  is  Olga  Flynn  now?"  Muriel's  tone  was 
clear  and  thin, — suspiciously  unimportant. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  13 

"Oh,  I  think  she'll  be  fifteen  to-morrow.  No;  six- 
teen, I  believe." 

''Oh,  I  didn't  know." 

Lawranee  finished  his  soup.  "I'll  open  the  cham- 
pagne, Mary,"  he  said  to  the  servant. 

There  was  nothing  new  about  this,  that  was  the  worst 
of  it;  there  would  be  nothing  new  in  what  was  coming. 
That  suspiciously  unimportant  tone,  how  well-known  it 
was!  And  there  were  never  any  climaxes,  any  catas- 
trophic finales.  Violence — of  some  sort,  of  any  sort, — 
would  have  been  better,  .  .  .  Jealousy  of  Olga  Flynn, 
though,  that  was  new  to  Lawranee;  not  new,  he  now 
suspected,  to  his  wife,  for  she  had  been  so  exactly  like 
this  before.  No  doubt  that  jealousy  accounted  for  other 
little  scenes,  ostensibly  backed  by  other  motives. 

They  had  chicken,  which  was  rather  tough — not  well 
cooked.  Muriel  drank  very  little  of  the  wine:  the  in- 
fringement, for  his  pleasure,  of  her  claims,  had  to  be 
noted.  Her  abstinence  served  as  an  opportune  asser- 
tion of  Puritanism,  an  assertion  against  him,  for  rebuke. 

"Don't  you  like  that  champagne,  darling?"  It  was 
again  the  familiar  conjugal  use  of  this  endearing  term, 
to  balance  a  betrayed  annoyance  of  tone. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  was  afraid  you  didn't  like  your  chicken." 

The  presence  of  the  maid  constrained  them,  so  they 
talked  incessantly  and  pointlessly  on  usual  topics.  The 
young  husband  drank  a  good  deal,  but  the  wine  had  no 
effect  on  him.  He  was  too  angry  and  too  much  disturbed 
for  that. 

Over  dessert  they  were  silent  at  first.  He  knew  that  if 
he  talked  she  would  gain  her  advantage  by  brief  an- 
swers, and  she  thought  that  he  would  play  the  same 


14  A  CHASTE  MAN 

game.    At  last  he  was  so  nervous  that  he  had  to  speak. 

"Come!"  he  cried,  **I  must  fill  your  glass.  There." 
Then  he  emptied  the  bottle  into  his  own  glass.  "Let's 
drink  to  the  day!" 

'"The  day!'  "  She  gave  a  little  shudder.  "Oh,  I 
don't  like  that.  It  reminds  me  of  those  awful  Ger- 
mans. ' ' 

"Well,  I'll  drink  to  you! — Now,  return  the  compli- 
ment, you  naughty  girl!"  Muriel  sipped.  "Now  to 
British  arms!" 

She  drank  all  her  wine  at  a  gulp,  scoring  off  him. 
The  hit  was  so  cheap  and  obvious  that  he  would  have  in- 
differently despised  it  coming  from  any  one  else,  but  he 
hated  her  for  it:  and  she  took  it  so  seriously,  she  was 
really  pleased  with  herself,  she  thought  she  had  man- 
aged cleverly. 

He  was  silent :  she  would  think,  he  knew,  that  he  was 
sulking.  He  resolved  to  ignore  that.  His  resentment 
against  her  fermented  in  him,  he  felt  miserably  stirred 
up,  and  entirely  helpless. 

"Well!"  she  said  after  awhile.  "And  what  are  you 
thinking  about?"  She  spoke  graciously;  she  implied: 
"Now  that  you're  punished,  I'm  willing  to  forgive  you." 

"Oh,  about  old  Flynn  and  his  family." 

Old  Flynn  was  Olga's  step-father,  Lawrance  had  not 
really  been  thinking  of  him;  he  had  been  thinking  of 
bachelor  flats  in  West  Kensington  and  envying  the  men 
who  lived  in  them. 

"You  always  did  find  them  interesting,  didn't  you?" 
Muriel  guessed  rightly  that  the  reply  was  intended  to 
annoy  her.  She  returned  at  once  to  the  defensive,  to 
the  watch  for  an  opening  for  attack. 

"I  find  them  interesting,  certainly." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  15 

''Well,  Doll  dear,  you  can't  say  that  I've  ever  stood  in 
your  way. ' ' 

"No,  not  exactly;  but,  after  all,  I  told  you  all  about 
them  before  we  were  married.  I  said  I  couldn't  drop 
them—" 

"Wouldn't  drop  them." 

"If  you  like.  Yes,  I  wouldn't — or  couldn't.  I 
couldn't  treat  old  Flynn  and  his  wife  shabbily." 

"You  certainly  haven't  done  that." 

"I  hope  not." 

"Well,  you  might  have  married  a  girl  who  would  have 
thought  them  horrid." 

Lawrance  raised  his  thick  eyebrows.  "You  do  think 
them  horrid,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no.  Only  they're  not  the  sort  of  people  one 
knows." 

"I  know  them  and  you  don't.  What  on  earth  is  the 
use  of  discussing  it?" 

*  *  Oh,  I  suppose  you  think  I  'm  complaining. ' ' 

"No,  I  don't."  He  got  up  from  his  chair.  "Why 
should  you  complain?" 

"Why?  There  are  a  great  many  women  who 
would." 

"They  don't  concern  us,  do  they?" 

"A  great  many  women  who  would  think  they  took  up 
a  lot  of  your  time — " 

"Oh!" 

"And — and — " — ^she  was  tearful — "took  you  away 
from  them!" 

"Oh,  come  now,  Maggie," — ^he  often  used  abbrevia- 
tions of  her  other  name — "we  see  quite  enough  of  one 
another.    You  have  your  own  friends. ' ' 

"How — ^how  horrid  you  axe  to  me!"    She  began  to 


16  A  CHASTE  MAN 

cry.  "And  to-night — when  I  thought  we  were  going  to 
be  so  happy ! ' ' 

"I  don't  see  why  telling  the  truth  should  make  you 
unhappy."  He  was  bitter  in  his  obstinacy,  in  his  deter- 
mination not  to  consider  her  hurt  vanity.  "We  do  see 
enough  of  one  another.     I  didn't  say  we  saw  too  much." 

* '  No,  but  you  meant  it ! " 

"Nonsense!"  He  gave  his  head  an  impatient  jerk. 
"I  say  what  I  mean.  You  don't  want  me  to  be  uxorious, 
do  you  ?  To  be  always  about  the  house  when  I  'm  not  at 
the  Office?  To  feel  that  I 'm  tied  down ?  It's  a  danger- 
ous thing  for  two  people  to  be  always  under  one  an- 
other's noses — however  fond  they  may  be  of  each  other. 
In  fact,"  he  went  on  with  some  heat,  "the  fonder  they 
are  the  more  dangerous  it  is. ' ' 

"Oh!"  She  dried  her  eyes  and  spoke  sarcastically. 
"I  wonder  why  people  marry  then!" 

"So  do  I — if  they  can't  be  sensible  about  it!"  He 
turned  to  go. 

"I'm  as  sensible  as  I  can  be !  Haven't  I  been — ^well — 
haven't  I  been  good  about  these  people?"  She  got  up 
and  went  over  to  him.  "Don't  be  so  horrid,  Oliver." 
Her  voice  shook  petulantly.  "I'm  sure  it's  I  who  might 
be  horrid,  not  you!     There  aren't  many — " 

"My  dear  girl,  I  don't  want  to  be  horrid  in  the  least. 
Why  should  we  go  raking  over  all  this  ?  What  good  does 
it  do?" 

"Well,  it's  only  that  you  don't  seem  to  see  it  from  my 
point  of  view.  Of  course  I  don't  mind — not  for  my- 
self— I  know  it's  all  right — of  course.  It's  only  what 
other  people  might  think.  They  might  think  it  wasn't 
only  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Flynn.  They've  three  girls,  you 
know,  Oliver." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  17 

"Three  little  girls." 

*' Doris  isn't  a  little  girl;  she's  eighteen  now,  isn't 
she?" 

"Good  heavens,  you  don't  think  I'm  interested  in 
Doris! — I  don't  know  how  old  she  is." 

* '  She  was  fifteen  when  we  married. ' ' 

"I  tell  you  I'm  not  interested  in  her  in  the  least — " 

"Well,  that  means  you're  interested  in  Olga!  You 
know  you  are ! ' ' 

He  looked  straight  at  her.  The  necklace  he  had  given 
her  caught  his  eye.     He  was  enraged. 

"This  is  intolerable,  Muriel!  I  thought  you  were 
above  this  kind  of  absurd  jealousy!  I  knew  them  all 
when  they  were  little  girls.  Do  you  want  me  to  drop 
the  family  the  instant  they  grow  up?  What  is  it  that 
you  do  want?  I  wish  to  goodness  you'd  state  it 
clearly — " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  violent.  I'm  not  jealous: 
but  naturally  I  don't  want  you  to  be  drawn  into  any — 
any  sort  of  an  affair.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  wasn't  fond 
of  you !  Oh,  Doll ! ' '  She  broke  down.  He  went  to  the 
door,  leaving  her.  "Don't  go  away!"  She  was  sob- 
bing.    "How  can  you  go  away  like  that?" 

"It's  much  better  not  to  continue  this.  You'll  be  ac- 
cusing me  of  an  'interest'  in  Marjorie  next.  She's  ten, 
I  believe — if  we  must  be  so  particular  about  all  their 
ages.  Don 't  you  see,  Muriel,  how  undignified  and  absurd 
this  kind  of  a  scene  is?  And  nothing  can  come  of  it. 
Either  you  want  me  to  drop  them,  or  you  don 't.  If  you 
don't,  well  and  good.  If  you  do — well,  I  won't."  He 
made  the  emphasis  deliberately  brutal.  She  was  silent. 
"You  knew,  before  we  married,  that  I  meant  to  keep  on 
with  them." 


18  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"That  wasn't  the  same  thing,  they  were  all  children 
then—" 

"I  don't  remember  any  limiting  clause,  breaking  up 
all  relations  when  they  grew  older.  The  older  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Flynn  are,  the  more  indecent  it  is  to  chuck  them. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  stipulate  that  their  children  are 
kept  under  lock  and  key  when  I  go  to  see  them  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  go  so  often  then!" 

"You  are  impossible."    He  left  the  room  abruptly. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  left  the  house,  and  took  a  long 
walk:  up  the  Chiswick  High  Road,  and  then  on  to  the 
river.    He  speculated  with  extreme  bitterness  upon  the 
nature  of  feminine  jealousy;  arguing  that  a  woman  could 
be  jealous  of  anything  that  gave  her  man  pleasure  or 
even  occupation  apart  from  herself,  no  matter  whether 
relating  to  sex  or  not.    Yes,  Muriel  had  always  been  op- 
posed to  his  special  individual  pleasures.    He  was  of 
course  biased,  with  a  sinister  personal  swerve ;  his  train 
of  thought  was  viciously  and  almost  wilfully  emotional. 
Again  and  again  he  went  back  to  his  wife's  coldness  of 
the  flesh,  and  hated  her  for  it:  hated  her  with  double 
edge  because  of  his  conviction  that  this  very  coldness 
enlarged  the  range  of  her  jealousies  and  made  them 
more  fretfully  acute. — And  then  the  dull,  stale  recur- 
rences of  everything  at  "home" — recurrences  on  which 
this  anniversary  had  set  a  confirming  seal ! — Of  the  «rirl 
Olga  he  refused  to  think  at  all,  instinc*' 
thoughts  that  might  give  any  justification  tr 
spoil  his  own  arguments  to  himself.     His  satihx 
in  his  grounded  resolution  not  to  give  up  the  i:- 
his  knowledge  that  Muriel  could  not  shake  him  there,  ai. 
knew  she  could  not  shake  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

LAWEANCE  did  not  see  his  wife  again  before 
he  went  to  the  Office  the  next  morning.    She 
told  him  through  her  bedroom  door  that  she  had 
a  bad  headache  and  could  not  come  down  to  breakfast. 
*'0h,  all  right;  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  then  breakfasted 
impatiently,  and  walked  off  with  his  daily  paper  under 
his  arm  to  take  the  motor-bus  to  Hammersmith  Broad- 
way.    In  the  Tube  he  kept  thinking  of  old  Flynn  and  his 
family,  he  nursed  his  affection  for  them  and  looked  for- 
ward to  the  lunch  in  their  familiar  house  in  the  Glasden 
Road.    Suddenly  he  remembered  Olga's  present:  he  be- 
gan to  search  his  pockets  for  it :  he  could  not  find  it  any- 
where— how    extraordinarily    vexing!     Well,    he    must 
have  left  it  behind;  he  could  not  remember  whether  he 
had  taken  it  from  the  dining-room  table  or  not,  he  rather 
thought  he  had.     Suppose  Muriel  had  got  it  now,  sup- 
pose she  were  to  pretend  it  was  lost  .  .  .  another  miser- 
able business!     He  certainly  couldn't  turn  up  at  the 
Flynns'  without  it.     If  it  were  lost — or  appropriated — 
he  would  buy  a  new  one.    It  was  a  gold  bracelet  he  had 
a(i»t  an  expensive  one,  but  costing  more  than 
i^nt  to  give.     Still,  he  knew  it  was  what  the 
,h:"  Of  course  Muriel  would  think  it  had  cost 
,xf  his  present  to  her.    So  it  had,  but  he  had  not 
^,«eaiit' iv-to — of  course  not:  the  thing  was  most  unpleas- 
PT-'      "^   wrance  heard  the  conductor  call  out   **Cale- 
>ad!"    He  left  his  seat  in  annoyed  haste.    He 
19 


20  A  CHASTE  MAN 

had  gone  past  his  station,  he  would  be  late  at  the  Office, 
and  he  would  have  to  leave  early  to  allow  for  going  home 
again  for  the  bracelet. 

Mr.  Inge,  obese  and  pale,  greeted  him  with  his  usual 
mixture  of  peevishness  and  affability : 

**  'Morning,  Mr.  Lawrance.  Don't  apologize,  though 
the  Lord  knows  we've  enough  to  see  to  today.  What  I 
particularly  want  you  to  do  is  to  read  through  this  num- 
ber of  the  'Astrologist,' — pick  that  confounded  silly 
article  of  Hyman's  to  pieces.  Expose  Hyman  as  a  char- 
latan— March  number — discredit  him — ^just  your  style — 
vivid,  condensed,  hit  straight  from  the  shoulder — ^you 
know  the  trick.  Capital.  'Gross  and  ignorant  distor- 
tion of  the  Vedantic  philosophy. '  You  know  the  angle, 
show  what  an  ass  the  man  is  and  don't  be  too  gentle- 
manly about  it.  Lam  him.  That's  the  style  now,  all 
these  modern  fellows  are  doing  it.  How  about  calling 
the  article  *  The  Asinolabe ' — taking  the  donkey 's  measure 
— see?  Good  idea,  eh?  Take  it  for  what  it's  worth. 
You've  a  free  hand,  of  course,  absolutely  free  hand. — 
Don't  sit  down.  I  want  a  talk  with  you  on  general  busi- 
ness.    Come  along  with  me." 

Lawrance  followed  Mr.  Inge's  lumbering  loose  form 
through  the  plate-glass  door  into  the  private  room.  He 
was  familiar  with  these  garrulous  expositions  of  inept 
craft.  Talks  on  "general  business"  were  inevitable 
every  Saturday  morning,  when  Mr.  Ralston  was  out  of 
town. 

"Ah — "  Inge  sighed  deeply,  a  look  of  care  crossed 
his  blurred  features,  as  he  began  turning  over  papers  on 
his  table.  He  sat  down  heavily,  "  I  'm  full  of  ideas,  my 
boy,  worn  out  by  'em.  Too  much  for  me.  Fact  is,  my 
habit  of  mind's  too  much  for  my  habit  of  body.    Yabbit 


A  CHASTE  MAN  21 

of  body.  The  war's  wearing  on  ine,  too.  Horrible 
business,  and  the  circulation  of  the  Review^s  going 
down."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "Did  you  know  that, 
Lawrance?  You're  a  stockholder,  you  ought  to  know. 
Feel  it  my  duty  to  consult  you  about  general  business. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  was  afraid  the  Review  was  being  hit."  Law- 
rance was  thinking  of  the  bracelet,  and  wondering  if  he 
would  be  able  to  get  off  by  half-past  twelve. 

"Of  course,  the  Mag's  done  fairly  well.  Horoscopes 
of  the  rulers,  and  all  that.  Biblical  prophecies.  No 
doubt  we've  enlarged  our  circle  of  religious  readers,  no 
doubt  at  all.  And  those  Villeul  Angels  helped  us  a  lot. 
But  times  are  bad  for  the  Applied  Arts.  .  .  .  We  can't 
chuck  the  Review,  even  if  it  comes  to  be  a  dead  loss. 
Burpham  would  take  all  his  money  out  like  a  shot — all 
of  it.     You  know  that. ' ' 

Mr.  Inge  put  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  and 
strained  forward.  The  veins  on  his  forehead  suggested 
caterpillars  to  Lawrance — they  suggested  the  silkworms 
that  he  used  to  keep  at  school.  They  were  crinkly  and 
soft  and  abnormal,  in  the  same  way. 

"You  see,  Lawrance,  we've  got  to  study  the  Posters. 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  this?  Poster  for  the  Mag. 
First — in  fairly  small  lettering:  'What  will  be.' — 
'What  will  be.'  You  get  that?  Then  underneath — ^bold 
big  print — 'Big  Sea-Fight  off  Scotch  Coast.'  'Air  Raid 
on  Berlin.'  'Sweden  Enters  War  for  Central  Powers, 
Holland  for  Allies.'  " 

"Not  all  at  once,  you  don't  mean?" 

"Well — ah — perhaps — no,  not  all  at  once."  Inge 
looked  discouraged.  ' '  Just  one  or  two  striking  items  of 
forecast,  that  was  my  idea.  Surely  you  must  see  that 
would  help  sales  enormously.    Why,  a  Poster  like  that 


22  A  CHASTE  MAN 

would  draw  anybody!  Honestly,  now,  you  must  agree 
with  me?" 

"Honestly,  I  don't  think  the  scheme  has  staying- 
power.  ' ' 

This  was  a  phrase  regularly  used  by  Lawrance  to 
counter  Mr.  Inge,  who  was,  rather  curiously,  worth  the 
pains  of  countering.  For  his  brilliancy  could  almost 
equal  his  silliness,  as  Mr.  Ralston  knew. 

"Oh,  we'd  vary  it! — of  course,  we'd  vary  it!  That's 
the  whole  essence  of  advertisement — change  of  tactics — 
very  spirit  of  it,  no  doubt  about  that!  Might  try  that 
Poster  business  for  one  week,  don't  you  think?" 

"Too  risky,  seems  to  me — only  make  ourselves  a  gen- 
eral laughingstock. ' ' 

"Well,  and  what  of  that!"  Mr.  Inge  slapped  the 
blotting  pad  with  a  hand  that  itself  looked  as  absorbent 
as  blottingpaper.  ' '  What  of  that  ?  Not  bad  at  all  to  be 
a  general  laughingstock,  or  a  general  anything.  Noto- 
riety's what  we  want,  that's  what  pays." 

"How  about  talking  it  over  with  Mr.  Ealston?  Per- 
haps you  have — " 

"Ah — er — I  shall,  of  course,  I  shall."  Mr.  Inge's 
small  brown  eyes  relapsed  to  a  momentary  furtiveness. 
"But  you're  a  young  fellow;  not  thirty  yet,  are  you? — 
Ah,  twenty-nine,  good  age,  twenty-nine.  Young  blood — 
vim  and  enterprise.  What  we  must  have. "  He  smiled, 
and  looked  like  an  impostor  in  the  seraphic  choir.  Law- 
rance curiously  surveyed  the  rolling  expanse  of  his  clean- 
shaven face.  "Vim,"  Mr.  Inge  repeated,  "Vim.  If  I 
had  as  much  vim  in  my  body  as  I  have  in  my  mind — 
ah!"  He  was  overcast:  his  melancholy  seemed  to  run 
to  fat  even  more  than  his  enthusiasm.  "Well,  anyhow, 
my  boy,  I've  put  the  Mag.  on  its  feet,  no  one  can  deny 


A  CHASTE  MAN  29 

that.  In  a  rut  when  I  took  it  out  of  Bollinger's  hands. 
I've  put  what  the  Yanks  call  'pep'  into  it,  no  one  can 
deny  that.  All  going  to  dry-rot,  full  of  heavy  technical 
stuff,  Karma  and  Yogi,  and  all  that.  Abstract.  Who 
cares  about  the  abstract?  We've  got  down  to  the  con- 
crete. Facts  of  psychic  experience — premonitions — ap- 
paritions— apports — Case  of  Mr.  X  and  Mrs.  Y.  Oh, 
by  the  bye,  Lawrance,  how  about  that  article  on  'Chil- 
dren and  Elementals' — experience  of  that  little  girl  you 
know  up  in  Highbury? — Ah,  Glasden  Road,  yes,  of 
course,  Glasden  Road.  I  must  think  out  a  good  title. 
Have  you  got  the  material  ? ' ' 

"Not  quite  in  shape  yet.  But  I  have  an  appointment 
with  her  people  to-day.  The  article  will  be  ready  for 
Press  Monday." 

"Good.  Excellent  subject.  Curious  thing,  Law- 
rance, people  who  are  interested  in  psychic  matters  are 
nearly  always  interested  in  children  too.  So  with  an 
article  like  that  you  get  the  double  appeal.  Just  tell  me 
again  about  that  Camden  Road  stuff.  Violent  Elemental 
manifestations,  weren't  they?  Child  thrown  out  of  its 
bed,  that  kind  of  thing?" 

"Well,  she  woke  up  feeling  that  she  was  being 
shaken — " 

"Same  thing,  same  thing.  You  can  put  'thrown  out 
of  bed.'  Good  sensational  stuff,  that's  what  we  want. 
Then  didn't  she  see  a  large  black  thing  with  yellow 
eyes?" 

"Something  of  that  kind.  She  heard  a  crash,  too, 
thought  the  washstand  was  smashed — " 

"Washstand  smashed.  Put  in  a  photograph  of  the 
smashed  washstand.     Capital. ' ' 

"It  wasn't  smashed,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 


^4  A  CHASTE  MAN. 

"Ah,  well,  send  the  article  in  to  me  before  it  goes 
through,  as  usual.  Get  a  photograph  of  the  child — in  her 
nightdress,  I  think — ^yes,  an  appropriate  and  harmonious 
touch.  Name  can  be  used,  can't  it?  No  objection  to 
that?" 

* '  Not  if  we  pay  five  guineas. ' ' 

**Five  guineas — 'm,  bit  steep.  Get  it  for  three  if  you 
can,  Lawrance — or  four  at  the  outside.  Can 't  connect  it 
with  the  war,  can  you?  Crash — ^Zeppelin  raids — might 
be  done?  No:  suggest  rationalistic  explanation,  that 
wouldn't  do.  Wish  Ralston  wouldn't  mess  my  copy  up 
the  way  he 's  been  doing  lately ;  some  of  my  best  touches, 
cuts  'em  all  out.  Wish  he'd  stick  to  the  Applied  Arts. 
That's  his  job,  really.  Don't  think  he  recognizes  what 
I've  done  for  the  business.  Just  look  at  our  American 
sales  these  last  two  years.  Doubled — ^more  than  doubled. 
My  trip  out  there  did  no  end  of  good,  you  know  that.  I 
pulled  things  off  right  and  left  in  Chicago — permanent 
effect — ^worth  thousands  to  us.  Ralston  couldn't  have 
done  anything  there.  They  all  said  I  looked  like  Bryan ; 
no  one  'd  ever  say  that  of  Ralston — " 

"I'm  quite  sure  Mr.  Ralston  appreciated  the  value  of 
your  trip  in  the  States. ' ' 

"Well,  he  ought  to,  he  ought  to.  Great  mistake,  this 
conservative  point  of  view.  Remember  how  peeved  he 
was  over  Welman  's  libel  suit  ?  Best  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  the  Mag.,  and  only  a  farthing  damages !  Gad, 
how  we  skinned  that  'Order  of  the  Saffron  Rose'  of 
theirs !  Just  the  right  kind  of  hints  at  immorality,  too ; 
couldn't  have  been  better  done.  That  was  my  master- 
piece, Lawrance — though  I  say  it,  that  whole  affair  was  a 
masterpiece ! ' '  His  eyes  twinkled  brightly,  his  discourse 
was  heightening  his  spirits.    "Now  old  Bollinger  would 


A  CHASTE  MAN  25 

never  have  had  the  nous  for  a  stunt  of  that  kind !  Im- 
possible. You  need  the  knack — either  you're  born  with 
it  or  you're  not.  Never  get  into  a  rut,  my  boy.  I've 
never  been  in  a  rut  in  my  life,  and  I  'm  past  fifty,  worse 
luck!" 

"You  wanted  that  thing  about  Hyman  to-day,  I  think 
you  said. ' '    Lawrance  got  up. 

"Oh,  yes,  but  there's  plenty  of  time,  plenty  of  time, 
really." 

"I  ought  to  get  off  pretty  early  to  keep  that  appoint- 
ment in  Glasden  Road. ' ' 

"Glasden  Road — Glasden — ?  Ah,  I  remember. 
Child  and  Elementals.  Incubi  and  Succubi.  What  was 
her  name  ? ' ' 

"Marjorie  Flynn." 

* '  Oh,  yes.  Child  of  ten,  you  said  ?  My  memory  holds 
all  right.  Constant  practice,  that 's  the  only  way.  "Why, 
that  School  of  Memory  Training  I  used  to  be  in,  I  made 
it — literally  made  it !  Wonder  how  Ralston  accounts  for 
my  success.  Feel  of  the  public  pulse,  I  've  always  had  it. 
Bom  with  it.  Advertising,  memory  training,  occultism 
— doesn't  matter  what  it  is,  I've  the  instinct!  Ralston 
knows  it,  too, — ^it's  jealousy,  that's  what  it  is.  Do  you 
know,  Lawrance, ' ' — he  dropped  to  a  low  portentous  tone 
— "do  you  know  I  really  believe  he'd  like  to  chuck  me  out 
of  this?  He  couldn't,  of  course,  but  he'd  be  willing  to 
let  the  whole  show  go  to  pot  from  sheer  jealousy !  Wish 
he  'd  attend  to  his  own  work,  and  keep  Burpham  in  hand 
more  than  he  does.  I  can't  deal  with  Milord  Burpham, 
Ralston 's  the  man  for  him,  and  yet  here  we  have  to  stick 
in  a  whole  bunch  of  stuff  about  the  new  right  wing  of 
Lipscot  House — with  diagrams  and  illustrations!  Who 
cares  twopence  about  Lipscot  House?    Burpham  thinks 


26  A  CHASTE  MAN 

because  it  belongs  to  him  that  makes  it  exciting  for  the 
public!"  Mr.  Inge  champed  his  jaw,  and  gave  a  thick 
expulsion  of  his  breath.  "What  if  he  is  a  viscount? 
Dear  old  British  snobbery  ain't  everything,  specially  just 
now.  ..." 

**I  really  ought  to  be  getting  to  work  on  Hyman." 

"Of  course.  Smash  him.  Personal.  Make  'em  sit 
up.  No  kid  gloves.  That's  what  they  like — ^hot  and 
strong,  and  sue  me  for  libel  if  you  want  to,  I  don't  care 
a  damn.  I'd  do  it  myself  if  I  knew  enough  about  Ve- 
dantism.  You're  all  right:  you  do,  and  you've  got  the 
books  there  by  your  elbow.  But  don't  be  too  technical. 
Be  technical  in  spots,  that  impresses  them — then  be 
slangy  and  ribald — force  of  contrast,  always  takes.  But 
you  know.  Lots  of  other  things  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about — ^never  mind — ^they'll  keep.  Oh,  come  in  to  me 
again  at  about  eleven-thirty;  I  shall  have  this  stuff  of 
'Israfel's'  licked  into  shape  by  then.  He  needs  the  deuce 
of  a  lot  of  doctoring.  Learned  air,  though ;  no  one  like 
him  for  that ;  sound,  very  sound.  Between  the  two  of  us 
we'll  knock  off  some  prophecies  that'll  pan  out  all  right, 
you'll  see."  He  took  his  pen  and  unfolded  some  type- 
written sheets.  "Something  definite  and  something 
that'll  come  off — something  about  the  war.  Dear  old 
'Israfel's'  manner  and  my  inspiration — ^yes." 

He  wrinkled  his  forehead,  and  began  to  murmur  and 
hum  to  himself.  Lawrance,  long  impatient,  took  the  op- 
portunity. 

"Four  pounds  at  most  for  that  Elemental  stuff,  and  less 
if  possible!"  Mr.  Inge  called  after  him  as  he  left. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  one  o'clock  by  the  time  Lawrance  got  back  to 
his  house  for  Olga's  bracelet.  The  prospect  of  the 
return  had  been  jarring  him  all  the  morning:  he 
could  not  keep  his  mind  off  the  acute  unpleasantness  of 
it;  he  had  writhed  in  his  chair,  he  had  found  the  great- 
est difficulty  in  concentrating  upon  smashing  the  pseudo- 
Vedantism  of  Mr.  Hyman.  Luckily  it  was  easy  to  smash. 
Mr.  Inge,  inveterate  charlatan  himself,  had  an  unerring 
flair  for  others  of  the  same  breed.  When  Lawrance  had 
finished  his  article  and  was  released  from  the  pressure  of 
work  of  immediate  claim,  he  found  it  impossible  to  start 
on  anything.  Mr.  Inge,  immersed  in  his  revisions  of 
"Israfel's"  occult  predictions,  waved  him  aside  at  eleven- 
thirty,  and  the  unexpected  diversion  of  the  appearance 
of  "Israfel"  himself  a  little  later  on  came  as  a  huge  re- 
lief. *'Ah,  ha!  'None  sing  so  wildly  well!'"  Inge 
had  called  out,  as  he  invariably  did,  and  this  time  he  fin- 
ished the  quotation,  with  a  pause  between  every  word: 
"  'As — the — angel — Israfel!'  " — a  sure  sign  that  he 
thought  his  morning's  work  had  gone  well  and  that  he 
was  in  a  good  humour. 

*'  Israfel"  was  unlike  any  possible  angel:  a  well-worn, 
hard-bitten,  spare,  harassed-looking  man  of  about  forty, 
with  abundant  grey-streaked  hair  that  he  brushed 
straight  back  from  his  forehead.  His  real  name  was  Eu- 
gene Titmarsh ;  and  he  was  a  sincere  and  conscientious  as- 
trologist,  although  he  made  his  living — ^such  living  as  it 

87 


28  A  CHASTE  MAN 

was — entirely  out  of  casting  horoscopes  and  writing  about 
the  influences  of  the  planets.  He  ran  one  of  the  astro- 
logical almanacks— "Israf el's" — and  this  brought  him  in 
nearly  half  of  his  income.  He  was  always  in  financial 
straits.  On  this  particular  occasion  he  had  come  to 
get  a  few  pounds  in  advance  out  of  Mr.  Inge,  and  by 
about  half-past  twelve  he  had,  after  gross  embarrass- 
ments, partially  succeeded. 

His  appearance  gave  Lawrance  heart.  After  all,  life 
did  not  vex  him  so  much  as  it  vexed  Titmarsh.  That 
worry  of  not  being  able  to  provide  properly  for  one's 
children — it  must  be  awful.  Lawrance 's  thoughts  re- 
verted to  his  wife ;  he  remembered  how  he  used  to  have  a 
grudge  against  her  for  not  bearing  him  a  child — a  grudge 
that  was  emphatic  about  a  year  ago.  Now  he  was  indif- 
ferent, more  or  less :  he  would  have  liked  the  interest  of  a 
child,  but  he  recognized  more  and  more  the  exactions  and 
the  complications  of  a  family :  the  further  his  observations 
went,  the  more  he  shrank.  .  .  .  Still,  Muriel  might  be 
easier  to  get  on  with  if  she  were  a  mother.  The  trouble 
with  her — one  of  the  troubles  with  her — was  that  she 
was  not  occupied  enough.  Everything  she  did  was  so 
trifling ;  it  was  as  though  she  spent  her  life  in  perpetually 
snapping  little  sticks  of  raw  macaroni.  When  he  came 
back,  she  would  be  about,  doing  nothing;  seeing  about 
some  detail  of  the  lunch,  and  seeing  about  it  very  in- 
effectively— fussing  the  servants.  Her  husband 's  return 
would  at  once  assume  inordinate  proportions,  she  would 
suspect  a  hidden  motive  in  it,  would  think  that  he  had 
come  back  on  purpose  to  hurt  her  feelings,  that  he  had 
left  Olga's  present  behind  on  purpose.  And  of  course  it 
did  look  like  a  slap  in  the  face — to  come  back  so  briefly, 
for  a  reason  that  threw  his  gift  to  the  girl  and  the  quar- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  29 

rel  of  the  evening  before  into  such  strong  relief,  then  to 
go  out  to  his  lunch  with  his  friends,  leaving  her  to  her 
solitary  meal.  Everything  would  be  emphasized  in  an 
intensely  disagreeable  way,  and  IMuriel  would  co-operate 
— not  exactly  wilfully,  no;  because  she  couldn't  help 
it — she  would  co-operate  with  the  emphasis.  And  she 
would  never  see  that  the  emphasis  was  purely  acciden- 
tal. .  .  . 

Of  course,  if  she  had  actually  taken  or  hidden  the 
bracelet — well,  then  she  deserved  all  she  would  get.  She 
deserved  it  anyhow!  But  why  should  he,  Oliver  Law- 
rance,  have  to  suffer  as  well  ?  He  felt  himself  tied  up  by 
the  leg,  his  sense  of  his  own  dignity  relucted  with  the 
result  of  a  sudden  swamping  of  his  veins  with  bad  blood 
and  the  clamping  on  him  of  a  ridiculous  vicious  stub- 
bornness. His  lack  of  humour  forbade  him  the  relief 
usual  with  most  men,  while  the  relief  brought  by  the  con- 
templation of  Eugene  Titmarsh  dropped  away  from  him. 
He  forgot  Titmarsh.  In  his  anger  that  he  should  be  go- 
ing to  have  to  suffer  because  of  his  wife  he  was  almost 
resolving  to  go  straight  on  to  the  Flynns'  without  Olga's 
present,  but  his  obstinacy  withheld  him.  No,  he  would 
go  back  home,  and  he  set  his  ugly  thoughts  to  the  paying 
back  of  Muriel  in  her  own  coin  if  she  were  disagreeable. 
He  almost  assuaged  his  personal  discomfort  with  the 
prospect  of  a  row. 

None  the  less  he  was  immensely  relieved  to  find  on  his 
arrival  that  Muriel  was  out.  He  went  straight  to  the 
diningroom:  the  package  was  not  to  be  seen.  He 
searched  the  sideboard,  and  the  mantelpiece;  he  looked 
about  on  the  floor  and  behind  things.  Then  he  searched 
in  his  bedroom,  equally  vainly,  all  the  while  growing 
more  and  more  suspicious  of  Muriel.    She  came  in  just 


30  A  CHASTE  MAN 

as  he  had  rung  for  the  servant :  from  the  top  of  the  stairs 
he  saw  her,  looking  pale  and  tired,  holding  consciously 
and  rather  stiffly  erect  that  sterile  figure  of  hers,  as  he 
saw  it  then,  with  its  ungenerous  hips.  Lawrance  saw  her 
as  his  sham  wife,  his  pretended  fellow, — frozen  fast  to 
him,  in  violation  of  life, — ^his  congealed  mock  mate.  He 
was  spiritually  frostbitten  by  her. 

"I  left  something  behind.  I  had  to  come  back  for  it." 
He  spoke  first. 

"Oh,  have  you  found  it?"  she  said  as  the  maid  ap- 
peared. 

"No. — Oh,  Mary,  have  you  seen  a  little  white  card- 
board box  about  anywhere?  I  think  I  left  it  in  the 
diningroom  yesterday — or  it  may  have  been  in  my  bed- 
room." 

"No,  sir,  I  haven't,"  the  girl  told  him,  with  bewil- 
dered solicitude. 

Lawrance  noticed  her,  with  some  surprise,  as  remark- 
ably pretty.  She  was  plump  and  well  rounded,  with 
dark-brown  hair  curling  in  chastened  abundance  from 
under  her  white  cap ;  she  was  rosy  and  fresh  and  young 
and  fruitful,  her  eyes  were  bright,  she  had  a  provoking 
little  interrogative  nose ;  Muriel  was  a  foil  to  her. 

"Oh — ^well — I  expect  I  shall  find  it,"  he  said:  think- 
ing resentfully:  "I  suppose  I'm  not  the  sort  of  man 
who  notices  if  his  servants  are  attractive." 

"Are  you  sure  you've  looked  carefully?"  asked  Muriel 
in  a  dried-up  voice.    "  I  '11  come  and  look. ' ' 

She  went  upstairs,  past  the  girl,  who  stood  with  an  un- 
certain and  defenceless  air,  as  though  she  were  in  dif- 
ficulties and  hoped  that  someone  would  be  kind  to  her. 
She  hesitated  about  following  her  mistress,  then  said: 
"111  look  in  the  diningroom,  sir,"  and  went  off.    Law- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  31 

ranee  and  his  wife  went  into  the  bedroom  together.  She 
began  turning  things  over  on  his  dressingtable. 

"I've  looked  there — thoroughly,"  he  said;  and  then, 
with  a  jerk :    "I  hope  your  headache 's  better. ' ' 

She  opened  a  drawer.  He  looked  at  her,  and  at  his 
reflection  in  the  mirror,  and  thought :  *  *  What  a  virtuous 
pair  we  are!"  Their  squalid  decency  impressed  him. 
He  recalled  the  days  of  his  courtship,  of  their  engage- 
ment. How  sentimental  he  had  been  about  her  purity, 
how  proud  that  she  had  never  had  any  "affairs."  He 
had  congratulated  himself  on  that,  had  read  her  into  his 
readings  of  Edward  Carpenter's  more  idealistically  ro- 
mantic passages — "Love's  Coming  of.  Age" — ^he  remem- 
bered. He  had  cherished  the  idea  of  her  as  a  Miranda,  a 
Perdita.  And  she  might  have  been,  for  all  he  knew. 
How  could  he  tell,  before  they  were  married?  These 
things  were  badly  arranged.  .  .  .  Lawrance  thought  of 
certain  country  customs.  But  hadn't  he  been  a  fool,  to 
think  that  the  absence  of  what  people  call  "carnality"  in 
his  love  for  her  meant  that  the  passion  was  something 
peculiarly  noble  and  rare,  that  it  would  foster  his  "bet- 
ter nature,"  and  make  him  "a  finer  man,"  and  all  that? 
Yes,  he  had  thought  of  his  love  for  Muriel  as  "holy." 
What  a  prig  he  must  have  been  about  it !  Wasn  't  he  a 
prig  still  ?  How  little  it  was  that  chaste  men  knew  about 
these  things  before  marriage !  What  was  one  to  think  of 
morality — abstract  morality?  And  how  exactly  did  ac- 
tual morality — ^the  real  customs  of  human  beings — how 
did  that  come  in  by  way  of  modification  ?  There  must  be 
some  connection — some  connection  that  people  never 
worked  out.  Lawrance  was  wofully  at  a  loss,  in  his 
earnest  way.  He  must  think  this  over  carefully ;  things 
were  evidently  not  as  he  had  supposed — ^he — 


82  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Don't  look  so  cross,  Doll!  Great  thick  eyebrows! 
I  Ve  found  it ! "  Muriel  was  on  her  knees  by  the  dress- 
ingtable :  she  held  up  the  cardboard  box. 

* '  Oh,  have  you  ? "  He  looked  at  her  with  obvious  sus- 
picion. 

She  flushed.  ' '  You  might  say  '  thank  you ' !  It  was  on 
the  floor.  You  must  have  knocked  it  off  from  the  back 
of  your  dressingtable. " 

**I  may  have.    Thank  you."    He  held  out  his  hand. 

She  was  nervously  playing  with  the  cover  of  the  box. 
**You  never  told  me  what  was  inside  it,"  she  said. 

"Do  I  need  to  now?" 

"Oliver !    Do  you  think  I  peeped?" 

"I  don't  think  anything." 

"As  if  I  wanted  to  know !" 

"Do  give  me  the  thing,  please.  I  shall  be  awfully 
late." 

She  gave  it,  and  walked  with  rapid  steps  out  of  the 
room.  Lawrance  wondered  if  she  were  more  angry  than 
he.  Each  of  them  had  the  power  to  make  the  other 
angrier  and  more  unreasonable — far  angrier  and  far 
more  unreasonable — than  any  one  else  could.  The  bonds 
of  matrimony :  he  reflected  for  a  moment  on  the  word  and 
its  implications.  He  was  in  his  heart  uncertain  whether 
or  not  Muriel  had  thrown  the  box  behind  the  dressing- 
table,  whether  she  had  opened  it;  but  he  kept  forging 
for  himself  the  conviction  that  she  had,  and  the  convic- 
tion answered  his  demand  for  a  weapon  of  attack. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LITTLE  Marjorie  Flynn,  a  taut  brown  child, 
with  dark  eyes  that  were  nervous  to  suit  her 
nervous  little  body,  darted  out  from  the  Glasden 
Road  house  to  meet  Lawrance.  In  her  shabby  and  out- 
grown Navy-blue  dress  that  showed  gartered  black  stock- 
ings and  gleams  of  tight-drawn  flesh  above  the  knee,  she 
ran  to  him  with  jumps  and  twitters. 

''Uncle  Lorrie!  You're  late!  You've  made  me  hun- 
gry ! ' '  She  flung  herself  up  at  him,  put  both  arms  round 
his  shoulders,  gave  him  a  number  of  wet  and  hearty 
kisses. 

"Well,  Marjorie!"  He  put  her  down,  he  was  em- 
barrassed. ''I'm  sorry  I'm  late.  Why  didn't  you 
begin?" 

"Doris  wouldn't.  She  said  it  would  be  rude.  Come 
along  quick. ' '  She  dragged  him  by  the  hand.  ' '  Do  you 
like  being  with  us?  You  do,  don't  you?  Everything's 
ready,  we've  got  roast  beef  and  there's  two  bottles  of 
whiskey.  Yesterday  I  fell  down  and  hurt  my  knee. 
Look !  It  bled  a  lot,  and  I  've  kept  some  of  the  blood,  and 
I  'm  writing  a  letter  with  it  to  Jimmy.  Jimmy 's  awfully 
nice,  he's  thirteen ;  he's  my  boy  now.  He  took  me  to  the 
Pictures  last  Wednesday,  and  we  held  hands  all  the  time. 
Wasn't  that  nice?  Rosy  Mayhew's  had  her  father  shot 
at  the  front ;  he 's  dead ;  he  got  the  bullet  in  his  head.  I 
wonder  if  it  took  his  head  right  off,  Uncle  Lorrie,  do  you 

33 


34  A  CHASTE  MAN 

think  it  would  have  ?  I  asked  Rosy,  but  she  didn  't  know. 
She  and  Alec  and  all  of  them  are  in  black;  they  look 
funny.  Should  we  go  all  in  black  if  father  died?  Mr. 
Deavitt  was  here  yesterday,  and  he  gave  me  a  jigsaw 
puzzle.  He's  such  a  funny  man.  Doris  hates  him,  but 
he  makes  her  laugh ;  she  says  she  hates  him  all  the  worse 
because  he  makes  her  laugh,  isn't  that  funny?  He  car- 
ried me  with  my  legs  over  each  of  his  shoulders.  You 
must  carry  me  that  way,  it's  lovely."  She  danced,  ex- 
cited, by  Lawrance's  side.  "Do  you  know  what  Mr. 
Deavitt  said  about  Mrs.  Lanyon  next  door  ?  He  said  she 
didn 't  order  her  dresses  by  the  yard,  she  ordered  them  by 
the  acre !  He  said  that 's  the  lady  they  're  sending  to  the 
front  as  cover  for  the  troops.  He  is  funny.  I  hope  he  '11 
come  some  day  when  you  're  here.  He  says  he 's  going  to 
take  me  to  the  'Coliseum.'  He  says  Olga's  'too  big 
enough'  for  him.  He  says  his  name's  'Archibald.'  I 
always  call  him  'Archibald.'  " 

She  threw  the  front  door  open,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
diningroom.  All  the  Flynn  family  was  there,  the  old 
man  and  his  wife,  the  two  girls  Doris  and  Olga. 

"He's  come  at  last!"  Marjorie  shouted. 

Lawrance  shook  hands  all  round,  apologizing  rather 
gravely  for  being  late.  "Many  happy  returns !"  he  said 
to  Olga,  feeling  not  quite  at  ease  with  her. 

Mrs.  Flynn  disappeared  to  the  kitchen.  ' '  Come  along 
and  sit  down,  Lorrie,"  Mr.  Flynn  invited  him.  "You 
girls,  go  and  help  your  mother.  Not  you,  Marjorie, 
you'd  be  in  the  way.  You  stay  here."  The  child  im- 
mediately sat  down  on  Lawrance's  knee.  "Well,  how's 
the  occult  world,  eh?  When's  the  war  going  to  end? 
Why  don't  you  tell  us?    Set  of  frauds,  you  are !" 

He  laughed  extravagantly.    His  laugh  set  Lawrance 


A  CHASTE  MAN  35 

firm  at  once  on  friendly  soil.  The  young  man  gave  his 
host  an  obviously  affectionate  look ;  he  loved  that  laugh : 
it  rang  like  a  deep  bell  to  summon  old  memories,  memo- 
ries in  which  Muriel  had  no  part. 

**Inge  is  going  to  give  you  five  pounds  for  that  busi- 
ness of  Marjorie's,  anyhow,"  he  said,  surprised  by  the 
pleasure  it  gave  him  to  say  it. 

"What!  A  whole  blessed  fiver!"  The  old  man's 
lively  blue  eyes  twinkled ;  there  was  a  slow  deepening  of 
his  ruddy  colour — a  ruddiness  that  seemed  to  have  worn 
the  tissue  of  his  skin  as  by  a  deep  rubbing  in  of  pigment. 
"Marj,  do  you  hear  that?  You  shall  have  a  new  dress — 
by  Moses,  you  shall  have  some  new  stockings,  too ;  look  at 
your  knees. ' '  The  little  girl  laughed,  and  tried  to  cover 
the  worn  thread  with  her  inadequate  skirt.  "Now  we'll 
have  a  drink.  Of  course  we  will.  Come  along.  Marjie, 
take  your  bony  legs  off  Uncle  Lorrie's  lap.  He  don't 
want  'em  there,  do  you,  Lorrie  ?  They  're  too  sharp  for 
comfort.  We  '11  give  you  more  milk  to  drink,  out  of  that 
fiver." 

He  walked  to  the  sideboard  and  took  out  a  bottle  of 
Vermouth.  His  long  lean  shanks,  in  their  grey  trousers, 
looked  curiously  overgrown ;  they  looked  like  the  shanks 
of  a  hobbledehoy,  they  were  out  of  keeping  with  the  years 
so  richly  betokened  by  his  liberal  white  hair  and  his  well- 
ripened  countenance. 

"Here  we  are.  Vermouth  di  Torino."  He  handed  the 
bottle  to  Marjorie.  "Give  that  to  your  uncle  Lorrie, 
with  a  tumbler."  Lawrance  poured  the  liquor. 
* '  Siphon ! ' '  Mr.  Flynn  called  out,  sharpening  the  edges 
of  the  word,  "siphon!  Marjie,  get  one  from  the  kitchen. 
Just  a  dash  of  soda.  It's  pretty  good  by  itself,  though. 
Pretty  good,  eh?"    They  sipped.    Old  Flynn  smacked 


36  A  CHASTE  MAN 

his  purplish  lips.  *  *  Just  a  dash  of  soda,  Mar  j — yes,  do  it 
yourself,  but  be  careful  about  the  squirting.  We'd  cry  if 
you  spilt  any." 

''I  say,  we  must  drink  to  Olga.     It's  her  birthday." 
**We  will — Chappy  thought.    Here  they  are." 
"And  here's  the  soup!"  exclaimed  Marjorie. 
* 'We're  drinking  to  you,  Olga."    Lawrance  held  up 
his  glass.    '  *  Good  luck ! '  * 

He  had  lost  the  shyness  that  he  had  felt  with  the  girl 
when  he  first  came  in:  the  idea  of  the  liquor,  an  idea 
opportunely  timed,  dissipated  embarrassment.  He  re- 
membered last  night's  champagne,  which  had  only  op- 
pressed him  and  tightened  his  head.  "  I  'm  happy  now, ' ' 
he  thought.  His  spleen  against  Muriel  kept  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  field  of  his  present  experience :  he  liked  it 
to  be  there,  it  gave  zest  to  his  enjoyment,  it  made  things 
more  interesting,  more  dramatic.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of 
irony.  He  wished  Muriel  could  see  him  now,  drinking  to 
this  young  girl  who  was  looking  so  lovely. 

Olga's  appearance  was  vibrant  and  foreign  in  this 
shabby  English  room.  She  had  green  eyes, — eyes  that 
were  darkened  by  her  deep  lashes;  her  dark  hair,  shot 
with  seldom  russet  half-lights,  was  strangely  dense  and 
fine  and  soft.  Her  complexion  seemed  to  have  been  pol- 
ished to  pallor,  and  her  lips,  against  that  pallor,  were  of 
a  heightened  scarlet.  Her  slenderness  was  acute,  but 
only  ephemerally  there  for  her  special  hour  of  youth: 
every  line  foretold  the  change  her  sex  would  claim. 
Lawrance  wondered,  for  the  first  time,  why  her  figure 
was  so  much  more  girlish  than  her  face.  He  had  never 
realized  this  brilliancy,  this  richness  of  her.  .  .  ,  There 
she  was,  so  suddenly  authentic — authentic  in  her  beauty, 
in  her  being  a  girl,  and  young,  and  unpossessed. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  37 

Her  father  had  been  Polish,  a  Polish  dancer;  she  was  a 
natural  child  of  Mrs.  Flynn's.  Muriel,  when  her  hus- 
band had  told  her  that,  had  said:  "Well,  of  course  you 
can't  possibly  expect  me  to  know  them,  can  you?" 
There  she  was,  then,  smiling  slightly  at  him,  this  Olga,  on 
the  sixteenth  anniversary  of  her  stained  birth. 

He  went  to  her  and  gave  her  the  bracelet  in  its  card- 
board box.  Her  mouth  grew  grave,  she  gave  him  an 
almost  apprehensive  shaft  from  her  long  eyes,  said: 
* '  Oh,  thank  you ! ' '  quickly  under  her  breath.  She  began 
to  untie  the  string,  then  she  stopped,  smiled  half- 
ashamed,  and  with  a  nervous  tremor  of  pleasure  in  her 
voice,  exclaimed :  "I  don 't  want  to  open  it  now :  let  me 
keep  it  a  little,  do  let  me."  Her  voice  was  low-pitched, 
always.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  * '  You  won 't 
mind,  will  you  ? ' ' 

''Oh,  Olga !"  Marjorie  addressed  her  sister  in  the  tone 
of  a  child  imitating  the  reprimands  of  its  elders.  "What 
a  shame !     I  want  to  see  it ;  I  want  to  see  it  now. ' ' 

"Well,  you  can't,  Marjorie,"  Lawrance  laughed  at  her. 

"Sit  down  to  your  dinner,  Marj."  Old  Flynn  settled 
himself  into  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  "Bless 
the  dear  ladies!  Praise  them  and  magnify  them  for- 
ever ! ' ' 

"I  want  to  see.'" 

"Marjorie,  sit  down,  dear."  Mrs.  Flynn's  tone  was 
unchallengeably  final:  the  child  obeyed  her  mother's  col- 
lected and  gauged  command. 

"Of  course  we  mustn't  see,"  said  blonde  plump  Doris 
in  her  musical  comedy  voice.  "Olga's  said  so.  She 
doesn't  want  to  open  it  now.  She  must  keep  it  a  little 
longer. ' ' 

Doris  tried  to  pitch  her  words  on  a  low  note,  in 


38  A  CHASTE  MAN 

mimicry  of  her  sister.  Olga  paid  no  attention,  she 
looked  quite  abstracted,  she  was  frowning  slightly  as 
though  at  something  that  came  to  her  from  a  very  long 
way  off. 

"Cheer  up,  kiddie!"  Doris  winked  a  babyish  blue  eye 
at  her.     "Cheer  up,  it's  your  birthday!" 

"Why  don't  you  give  Uncle  Lorrie  a  kiss?"  Marjorie 
called  out  shrilly.  ' '  You  must  give  a  kiss  when  you  get 
a  present." 

"Saucy  little  hound!"  cried  Doris.    "Shut  it!" 

Olga  kissed  Lawrance  before  he  realized  it,  with  lips 
that  were  cool  and  light.  Her  pallor  was  not  even 
faintly  tinged,  nor  did  he  colour.  They  all  sat  down,  and 
began  their  soup.  Lawrance  had  Olga  and  Doris  to 
either  side  of  him. 

Doris  and  Marjorie  between  them  did  nearly  all  the 
talking,  and  more  or  less  simultaneously. 

"Well,  you  did  crib  that  from  Mr.  Deavitt,"  insisted 
Marjorie.  *  *  That 's  what  he  says :  *  Saucy  little  hound ! ' 
He  calls  every  girl  *  Mordie, '  Uncle  Lorrie,  and  every  boy 
'Georgie.'  He  calls  Mrs.  Lanyon  'Mordie  Lanyon.' 
Doesn't  that  sound  funny?  I  do  like  him — ^because  he's 
so  silly!  He  said  to  Jimmy:  'You're  too  pretty  for  a 
boy,  you  ought  to  have  been  a  pig ! '  "  She  went  on  twit- 
tering at  high  pitch  between  mouthfuls  of  soup.  ' '  Doris 
is  a  copy-eat.  She  cribs  things  out  of  those  pieces  at 
the  theatre,  too,  she — " 

"Mr.  Fisher's  given  me  a  part  in  'The  Runaway  Girl* 
that's  going  on  tour  this  summer.  It's  a  speaking  part, 
too.  Four  pounds  a  week.  Not  half  bad,  Mr.  Lawrance, 
is  it  ?    We  begin  rehearsals  next  week. ' ' 

"She  used  to  hate  Mr.  Fisher.  Mr.  Fisher  told  Edie 
Newman  Doris  was  a  soapy  kid !    Mr.  Deavitt  said—t" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  89 

"Oh,  shut  it,  silly  little  owl,  you  and  your  Mr. 
Deavitt!" 

"He  said:  'It's  the  wrong,  wrong  way  to  tickle 
Mary!'" 

"She  can't  talk  of  anything  but  Mr.  Deavitt.  She's 
got  that  Mr.  Deavitt  on  her  brain!  She's  dotty  about 
Mr.  Deavitt!" 

"I  got  five  pounds  for  those  animal  things  I  saw  in  my 
bedroom ! ' ' 

"Yes,  you  would  see  snakes,  Marj.  Did  you  really  get 
her  five  pounds,  Mr.  Lawrance  ?  How  awfully  good  of 
you ! ' '    Doris  put  on  her  Society  air. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  new  dress  and  a  new  pair  of 
stockings ! ' ' 

The  chatter  continued. 

Mrs.  Flynn  was  carving  the  beef.  Her  presence  grad- 
ually emerged,  she  becaone  noticeable,  more  and  more, — 
even  noteworthy.  Lawrance  reflected,  in  and  out  of  the 
incessant  patters  and  trills  of  the  girls'  talk,  upon  the 
admirable  quality  of  this  woman's  silence,  upon  the 
power  she  gave  it  of  spelling  her  out,  so  emphatically 
and  so  without  the  obtrusion  of  a  silence  that  is  conscious 
and  forced.  Wonderful,  the  way  she  impressed  herself 
without  a  word,  without  even  motions  or  looks  that  could 
be  called  "characteristic."  Lawrance  felt  that  he  really 
loved  her,  there  was  no  one  else  who  could  give  him  the 
same  sense  of  ease  and  security,  not  even  old  Flynn,  for 
the  "Mariner,"  as  Lawrance  called  him,  had  his  uncer- 
tain and  even  fretful  moods.  He  could  not  escape  every 
penalty  of  his  Irish  blood.  Lawrance  saw  him  looking 
at  his  wife  from  across  the  table,  with  an  expression  of 
permeating  content.  Devoted  to  her :  Lawrance  was  well 
aware,  and  now  rather  jealously  aware,  of  that.    How 


40  A  CHASTE  MAN 

ugly  ]\Irs.  Flynn  was,  grotesquely  ugly,  you  might  say, 
with  her  scanty  black  hair  showing  uneven  grey  streaks, 
hair  drawn  tightly  behind  her  ears  and  above  her  lined 
forehead,  into  plaits  that  looked  as  though  they  had  been 
there  for  decades.  Then,  her  misshapen  prominent  nose, 
her  asymmetrical  mouth,  and,  over  heavy  pouches,  her 
round  brown  eyes  that  bulged  out  to  what  seemed  at  first 
so  incongruous  a  company  with  the  rest  of  her  face. 

But  Lawrance  could  be  happy,  he  felt,  looking  at  her 
for  hours  together.  He  would  like  always  to  have  her 
about.  Though  he  had  known  her  for  nine  years,  each 
meeting  with  her  had  a  freshness.  Always  at  first  he 
found  himself  ignoring  her,  noticing  the  others:  always 
she  impressed  him,  surprised  him,  later  on.  Her  eyes 
comforted  him  immensely ;  they  had  a  withdrawn  light  of 
humorous  friendliness — really  humorous :  of  the  humour 
that  puts  everything  in  its  natural  place,  that  allows 
for  its  being  there,  and  understands.  Her  eyes  were 
what  mattered,  it  was  her  eyes  that  were  herself :  utterly 
free  from  guile,  and  setting  upon  everything  the  seal  of 
their  freedom.  They  had  a  rare  and  remote  roguishness, 
a  roguishness  of  baffling  implication.  With  those  eyes, 
when  she  was  younger,  there  must  have  been  reason 
enough  for  the.  Polish  dancer's  romance,  and  for  others. 
Her  strange  and  challenging  passiveness,  overlying 
power,  must  have  made  all  possible  sex  amends  for  her  in 
her  youth.  She  seemed  to  rest  all  the  while  in  wait,  in 
an  amicable  ambush,  where  she  chose  to  be  for  the  un- 
troubled reception  of  what  might  pass :  yet  she  was  ready 
to  raise  a  withholding  hand,  on  an  easy  and  infallible 
dignity,  when  the  time  came.  She  was  in  a  chosen  back- 
water, yet  she  knew  the  hour  of  every  current,  and  its 
strength.    Blonde  pretty  Doris,  that  "soapy  kid,"  lath- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  41 

ered  in  bubbly  flux  from  a  limply-squeezed  sponge  of 
emotion,  all  her  feelings  at  a  haphazard  smear  about  her, 
threw  her  mother's  moulded  surety  into  high  relief. 
Lawrance  looked  at  Mrs.  Flynn  with  an  open  admira- 
tion, impressed  anew  by  her  complete  unrivalled  conquest, 
in  adaptation,  of  physical  handicaps:  by  that  articula- 
tion of  dignity  with  a  frame  so  round  and  tight ! 

Marjorie,  eating  her  beef,  had  now  short  intervals  of 
silence.  Doris  addressed  herself  mainly  to  the  young 
man :  she  liked  him,  because  he  was  dark  and  tall,  with  a 
hard  well-strung  body.  She  liked  his  thick  eyebrows, 
and  his  hot  stressed  underlip.  She  was  extremely  jealous 
of  Olga,  whom  she  knew  Lawrance  preferred,  though  she 
told  herself  that  really  he  couldn't,  because  Olga  was 
"slow"  and  "soft,"  and  she,  Doris,  was  smart,  she  knew 
how  to  talk  to  men;  they  thought  her  clever  and  good 
form,  she  was  the  style  for  them,  she  had  had  practice. 
Olga  never  talked  to  any  one,  she  just  looked,  she  was  a 
stick,  she  couldn  't  be  any  form  at  all  for  anybody.  And 
she  was  a  conceited  little  cat. 

"Isn't  it  lovely,"  Doris  was  saying,  "that  Uncle  Tofty 
and  Uncle  Lance  have  both  skedaddled  off  to-day  1 ' '  The 
two  men  referred  to  were  boarders  of  some  years'  stand- 
ing at  the  Flynns'.  "Uncle  Tofty 's  gone  for  the  week- 
end to  Portsea,  and  Uncle  Lance  is  spending  the  day  with 
his  cousins  at  Acton,  Wasn't  that  lucky  for  Olga's 
birthday  and  you  coming  ? —  Oh,  I  liked  that  Occultists' 
Magazine  you  left  here  last  time,  Mr.  Lawrance.  I 
thought  it  was  awfully  interesting,  that  part  about  the 
lines  on  the  hand.  What  was  it  called  ?  '  Cheiro '  some- 
thing, wasn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.  'Some  Variations  of  Cheiromantic  Read- 
ing.'   Glad  it  amused  you." 


42  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I  thought  it  was  awfully  clever.  Did  you  write 
it?" 

"Yes,  I  wrote  that." 

"Do  you  know  about  the  lines  on  the  hand,  Uncle 
Lorrie?  I  didn't  know  you  knew.  Do  tell  mine.  Shut 
up,  Doris,  my  mouth  isn't  full  now.  There  was  an  old 
woman  on  the  Pier  at  Brighton  last  summer  and  she  told 
Olga  she  was  going  to  be  married  at  seventeen  and  have 
three  babies,  two  girls  and  then  a  boy.  That  was  nice, 
wasn't  it?  I'd  like  to  be  an  aunt.  They  put  that  old 
woman  in  prison,  they  said  she — " 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  put  me  in 
prison,  Marjorie.  I  quite  deserve  it.  Old  Inge  and  I 
ought  to  share  a  cell." 

* '  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  boy. ' '  The  Mariner  poured  a  long 
draught  of  whiskey  and  water  down  his  lean  throat. 
Lawrance  watched  the  machine-like  movements  of  the 
Adam's  apple  that  made  so  much  ado  in  its  confinement 
of  withered  skin,  he  noticed  the  exposed  workings  of  the 
sharp  projecting  bones  to  either  side,  bones  that  were 
of  an  antique  springiness,  flexible  and  frangible  at  the 
same  time.  * '  Not  a  bit  of  it !  You  're  all  right !  What 
would  the  ladies  do  without  fortune-telling,  eh,  tell  me 
that?  These  damned  Puritans  want  to  take  all  our 
pleasures  away.  'Obtaining  money  under  false  pre- 
tences,' is  it?  What  I  say  is  that  no  one  ever  obtained 
money  under  false  pretences  who  gave  pleasure  for  ut! 
What  do  you  think,  Patsey,  my  girl  ? "  He  looked  across 
to  his  wife  with  a  glance  of  affection  so  unexpectedly 
keen  that  Lawrance  winced. 

Mrs.  Flynn's  eyes  revolved  and  brightened.  "You 
know  I  don't  want  to  send  Lorrie  to  prison." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lawrance !"  Doris  cried  with  innocent  eager- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  43 

ness,  clasping  his  arm.  "Do  tell  our  hands  afterwards, 
Mr.  Lawranee!" 

"Yes,  do.  Uncle  Lorrie — do!"  Marjorie  held  out  both 
her  thin  little  long  brown  hands;  she  jumped  in  her 
chair.  "Why  do  you  always  call  him  *Mr.  Lawranee,' 
Doris?    It's  so  silly!    Olga  doesn't." 

"Saucy  little  Madam!" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  your  fortune,  Olga?" 

The  girl  didn't  answer. 

"Dreaming  as  usual,  Olga!"  Doris  cried  out.  "Do 
wake  up.  She  never  says  anything  all  mealtimes,  only 
'Yes'  and  'No'  and  'Please'  and  'Thank  you.'  She 
ought  to  go  into  a  Convent ! ' ' 

Olga  started  and  frowned,  with  delicate  little  lines  all 
over  her  white  forehead.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  and 
looked  round,  vexed  and  bewildered. 

"Well,  and  why  shouldn't  she  dream  if  she  wants  to? 
You're  all  right,  Olga  darling,  you're  all  right.  I  don't 
talk  if  I  don't  want  to,  why  should  you?  You  agree, 
Patsey,  don 't  you  ? ' '  The  old  man  reached  for  the  bottle. 
"When  we've  whiskey  we  talk  or  we  don't  talk,  and  it  all 
comes  easy.    Pass  the  water,  Marj.    Lorrie,  fill  up." 

Lawranee  did  so.  It  was  a  noble  Irish  whiskey,  well 
born  and  well  bred,  a  whiskey  of  ripe  essence,  potent  and 
smooth,  a  whiskey  for  drinkers  of  well-determined  heads 
and  spirits  amply  girt.  A  whiskey  that  soda  would  have 
outraged.  Both  Lawranee  and  the  Mariner  had  the  ex- 
perienced right  way  with  their  glass:  they  advanced,  in 
the  right  slow  dear  measure,  from  the  terms  of  acquaint- 
ance to  the  terms  of  intimacy.  They  had  the  free- 
masonry of  perfect  bottlemen's  manners.  Lawranee 
noted,  with  a  rush  of  really  exquisite  pleasure,  the  pres- 
ence of  a  second  bottle,  with  its  enchanting  yellow  label, 


44  A  CHASTE  MAN 

on  that  clipped  and  tarnished  sideboard.  They  would 
come,  at  a  later  hour,  to  that  second  bottle,  on  terms  with 
it  of  instant  friendship,  a  friendship  of  private  relish. 

Ah !  a  whiskey  of  parts :  they  took,  in  unison,  consid- 
erate mouthfuls. 

*'I  don't  care  about  whiskey,"  said  Doris.  "What  I 
like  is  a  nice  glass  of  Port  wine. ' ' 

"You  shall  have  it,  my  dear!"  The  Mariner  raised 
his  voice  to  a  jocund  falsetto.  "It's  Olga's  birthday. 
Marjie'll  go  round  to  the  corner  and  get  you  a  bottle 
afterwards. ' ' 

"What  wine  do  you  like,  Olga?"  Lawrance  turned  to 
her  rather  abruptly,  and  the  girl  started  again. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  We  had  some  light  sparkling 
wine  once — Sparkling  Moselle,  it  was.  I  liked  that. 
Sparkling  Burgundy's  nice,  too." 

"Good  idea."  Mr.  Flynn  gave  her  a  philanthropic 
look.  "Excellent  idea.  It's  your  birthday,  Olga  dar- 
ling, and  you  shall  have  Sparkling  Burgundy.  Can't 
have  Moselle — German  wine,  can't  have  that.  What  I 
say,  my  dear,  is,  go  out  and  get  it  afterwards  and  have  it 
for  supper.  Lorrie  and  I'll  stick  to  whiskey,  though, 
what  do  you  say,  Lorrie?  You'll  stay  to  supper,  of 
course?  Sparkling  Burgundy,  Marj,  get  it  at  the 
comer. ' ' 

"What  does  that  big  lump  under  my  thumb  mean,  Mr. 
Lawrance?"  Doris  asked  him  with  her  sudden  innocent 
curiosity. 

"Oh,  that!"  The  young  man  took  her  hand  and 
squeezed  the  plump  ball  of  flesh.  "That's  the  Mount  of 
Venus." 

"Oh!"  She  flushed  and  brightened.  "What  does 
that  mean?" 


2f  CHASTE  MAN  45 

**It  means  you're  fond  of  flirtations." 

*  *  Oh,  Mr.  Lawrance,  I  'm  not  a  bit ! " 

He  let  her  hand  go :  her  disappointment  did  not  escape 
Marjorie,  whose  bird-like  eyes  kept  darting  everywhere. 

"Doris  likes  you  holding  her  hand!"  she  shamelessly 
exclaimed.  "She  likes  men  to  hold  her  hand!  Don't 
you,  Dorrie!" 

"Mar-jor-ie/" 

"Well,  what  was  I  telling  you?"  Lawrance  laughed. 

Olga's  hand  was  on  the  table  by  him :  he  took  it.  The 
fingers  were  flexible  and  rather  moist — a  white  hand, 
with  resilient  bones  that  seemed  as  though  they  might  be 
easily  crushed.  Strange,  that  they  should  be  bones,  as 
the  Mariner's  were  .  .  .  bones  of  age  and  youth.  .  .  . 
But  Lawrance  had  no  sinister  thoughts. 

"You  see,  Olga's  Mount  of  Venus  is  nothing  to  yours, 
Doris ;  but  she  beats  you  on  the  Girdle. ' ' 

"What's  the  Girdle?"  Doris  asked  suspiciously. 

* '  The  Girdle  of  Venus.  Just  above  the  heart-line.  Do 
you  see,  Olga's  goes  right  round  from  the  forefinger 
nearly  to  the  little  finger.  That's  very  unusual.  It's  a 
good  deal  broken :  there  in  the  middle  it  joins  the  line  of 
heart." 

' '  What  does  it  mean  ? ' '  Doris  asked  eagerly  now,  hop- 
ing for  some  point  of  vantage  upon  her  sister. 

' '  Oh,  it  may  mean  a  lot  of  things !  It  means  that  she  '11 
be  in  love  quite  differently  from  you." 

'  *  Has  she  been  in  love  already  ? ' ' 

"No."  Lawrance  was  decisive.  "But  you  have, 
Doris,  you  know  you  have,  scores  of  times. ' ' 

"  Oh  I "  Doris  attempted  dignity.  "  I  'm  not  so  sure 
about  that!" 

"I'm  in  love  with  Jimmy!"  cried  Marjorie.    "And 


46  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Mr.  Deavitt's  in  love  with  me!  Do  look  at  my  hand!" 
She  stretched  it  out. 

"What  I  say," — the  Mariner  stuck  his  knife  into  a 
piece  of  cheese — "what  I  say  is,  if  you  can  make  people 
happy,  well,  why  not  ?  If  a  girl  can  give  pleasure,  why 
shouldn't  she  do  it?  The  worst  kind  of  a  girl  is  a  girl 
that  doesn't.  She  goes  rotten  inside.  Always.  You 
agree  with  me,  Patsey?" 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Olga  slowly,  "I  don't  think  I 
can  give  any  one  pleasure.    I  wish  I  could. ' ' 

^'Olga!    What  a  way  to  talk!"  Doris  half  giggled. 

Lawrance  had  not  let  Olga's  hand  go.  Their  fingers 
grew  warm  together ;  suddenly  hers  twitched  and  pressed 
his.  Simply  nervousness,  perhaps?  He  wondered.  Of 
course  she  was  nervous,  nervous  and  shy.  Her  palms 
were  intersected  with  little  broken  criss-cross  lines.  He 
looked  at  the  others.  Mrs.  Flynn  's  round  brown  eye  in- 
cluded him  in  a  special  dispensation  of  the  benignity  of 
its  undersurface  smile;  Doris,  fidgety  and  piqued,  was 
scolding  Marjorie  as  though  it  were  her  duty,  with  a  pre- 
tence of  preoccupation.  She  had  turned  away  from 
Lawrance,  stressing  her  tact  in  ignoring  that  his  hand 
lay  with  Olga's.  Marjorie  tossed  her  head  and  left  the 
table,  throwing  herself  for  a  moment  at  full  length  upon 
the  horsehair  sofa:  it  escaped  Lawrance  that  there  was 
something  curiously  engaging  about  the  illusion  of  ab- 
normal length  that  this  posture  gave  to  the  little  girl's 
form.  She  returned  to  her  place  with  an  air  of  caprice. 
The  old  man  seemed  at  that  moment  apart  from  and 
independent  of  them  all:  he  chuckled  lightly,  embraced 
by  his  jolly  angels ;  he  rubbed  his  hands  softly  together, 
set  his  pleased  gaze  to  a  point  through  and  past  the  vi- 
sion of  the  others.    Lawrance  had  an  anxious  curiosity 


A  CHASTE  MAN  47 

for  the  thoughts  of  Olga:  her  look  told  him  nothing, 
except  that  she  had  thoughts  and  was  baffled  by  them. 
He  noted  again  that  little  teased  delicate  frown  of  hers, 
that  frown  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  so  fa- 
miliar. He  thought  of  Muriel,  whom  he  saw  clearly  for 
a  moment,  incongruous  and  intrusive  here.  The  vision 
made  him  more  friendly  to  his  companions,  more  un- 
friendly to  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  Mariner  had  a  recognized  claim  on  Law- 
rance  for  an  hour  or  so  after  any  meal  in  his 
house.  "Now  for  our  little  time  together, 
Lorrie,  what  do  you  think?"  the  old  man  would  say. 
The  convention  was  so  well  established  that  even  Mar- 
jorie  never  protested.  Lawrance's  enjoyment  of  these 
hours  was  as  a  rule  no  less  than  his  companion's:  but  on 
this  occasion  he  felt  a  reluctance,  an  impatience,  that  not 
even  the  tender  insinuations  of  that  Irish  whiskey  could 
altogether  soothe. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  with  Olga  since 
his  definite  knowledge  that  his  wife  was  jealous  of  her. 
The  girl  excited  his  interest  now,  but  not,  so  he  made  it 
out,  his  senses.  No,  it  was  not  a  physical  compulsion 
that  he  felt  to  her,  he  assured  himself  of  that:  but  he 
wanted  to  find  out  about  her,  he  wanted  the  real  inti- 
macy of  friendship,  not  the  sham  intimacy  of  passion. 
He  wanted  to  read  her  innocence  and  her  charms  as  one 
reads  a  book:  any  love  affair  would  obscure  the  pages. 
She  did  not  want  it,  either,  he  was  sure ;  she  never  had 
wanted  it,  any  more  than  he:  love  affairs  were  not  in 
place  for  her.  She  was  too  subtle  and  slow  in  her  growth 
for  them  yet.  And  Lawrance  's  pride  forbade  him  a  vul- 
gar expected  co-operation  with  Muriel's  suspicion:  fur- 
ther, and  more  importantly,  he  tended  towards  a  relation 
with  the  girl  that  should  be  peculiarly  their  own,  that 
should  have  nothing  in  common,  nothing  even  super- 

48 


A  CHASTE  MAN  49 

ficially  in  common,  with  any  relation  that  he  had  had 
with  his  wife.  He  wanted  to  swing  clear  from  Muriel 
in  this,  and  whether  his  intention  justified  her  jealousy 
the  more  or  the  less  he  did  not  allow  to  concern  him. 
He  aimed  instinctively  at  the  wider  estrangement  that 
came  of  not  being  concerned. 

Old  Flynn,  as  soon  as  his  wife  and  the  girls  had  gone, 
uncorked  the  second  bottle  of  whiskey. 

"Not  quite  ready  for  it  yet,"  he  said,  "but  I  like  to 
see  it  ready  for  us.  Ah,  my  dear  old  boy,  we  like  to 
see  it  ready  for  us,  don't  we?"  He  placed  it  between 
them,  then  took  his  old  black  meerschaum  out  of  its  case 
that  lay  always  in  a  corner  of  the  mantelpiece,  filled  it 
by  sweet  degrees,  lit  it  and  blew  lavish  clouds.  "Pity 
you  don't  smoke,  Lorrie.  Thank  the  Lord,  you  drink, 
though.  That  fellow  who  was  round  here  yesterday — 
Deavitt — Crockerton  Deavitt — he  don't  either  smoke  or 
drink.  Jumpy  sort  of  chap,  big  bulgy  blue  eyes  and  a 
big  yellow  moustache.  Not  enough  flesh  on  him,  what 
he  wants  is  Port  wine.  Doesn't  do  for  a  grown  man  to 
drink  only  milk  and  tea  and  cocoa.  Blood  thins  out. 
He's  an  entertaining  cuss,  though,  and  plays  a  fair  hand 
at  whist  and  'hearts.'  But  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  if  a  man 
don't  drink,  there's  something  wrong  somewhere.  A 
modest  wash-down  with  his  meals,  and  a  good  hearty 
stand-to-ut  when  he  gets  with  a  friend  once  in  a  while. 
And  to  hell  with  the  secret  drinkers,  damn  all  the  alco- 
holics, I  say;  they  don't  understand.  Subjects  for  the 
physician,  poor  devils!  But  every  god  worth  worship- 
ping has  to  have  his  victims,  it's  all  in  the  game,  ain't  it? 
What  do  you  say?" 

' '  Your  religion 's  as  sound  as  a  bell ! ' '  Lawrance  fin- 
ished his  glass.     He  continued  to  think  of  Olga.     The 


50  A  CHASTE  MAN 

sway  of  Dionysus  was  disputed  within  him ;  but  he  paid 
lipservice  by  filling  up  again. 

"We've  the  best  of  it  these  days,  we  octogenarians. 
No  fighting  for  us.  I  tell  you,  Lorrie,  I  tell  you — " 
The  Mariner  stopped  and  took  a  draught,  of  slow  and 
lovely  percolation.  **Ah  ...  I  tell  you,  when  you  hear 
a  striding  old  fellow  with  the  big  voice,  when  you  hear 
him  say:  'Lucky  young  chaps!  Wish  I  was  young 
enough  to  go  too,'  well,  don't  you  believe  him!  Bluff, 
that's  what  it  is,  bluff.  They  know  when  they're  well 
off,  right  enough,  with  their  beds  and  their  victuals  and 
their  armchairs  and  their  newspapers  on  their  breakfast- 
tables  of  a  morning!  Don't  you  believe  'em!  Never 
was  such  a  snug  time  for  the  old.  But,  Jove !  a  young 
chap  like  you  is  the  best  off  of  all,  Lorrie !  Heart  that'll 
last  your  time,  but'd  crock  up  on  a  march  in  a  twin- 
kling!" 

"Yes."  Lawrance  recalled  his  wandering  thoughts. 
**I  suppose  I  should  have  to  go  if  it  weren't  for  my 
heart.  ..." 

"Not  that  I'm  against  war,  mind  you, — not  a  bit  of 
it.  Just  look  at  the  people  who  are ;  just  think  of  them ; 
set  of  lousy  rats,  lousy.  Damned  teetotal  crew.  Never 
was  an  honest  drinker  yet  who  was  a  Pacifist.  Never. 
I  tell  you  the  two  things  go  together.  I  tell  you 
what,  Lorrie:  take  the  opinion  of  a  man  who  doesn't 
drink,  and  then  believe  the  dead  opposite.  Sure  to 
be  right —  No,  when  we  get  war,  we  want  it.  They'll 
go  on  longer  than  they  need,  of  course;  these  things 
aren't  made  to  tailor's  measure — but  we  wanted  it,  had 
to  have  it.  Shambles,  yes,  sort  of  lyric  shambles — bet- 
ter for  it— don't  you  believe — "  He  trailed  inaudibly 
off,  as  he  relit  his  meerschaum. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  51 

"Well,  we  were  right  to  come  into  this  war,  anyhow." 

"Right!  Right?"  The  old  man  wagged  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  to  get  a  better  draught  for  his  pipe. 
"Right  don't  matter.  We'd  have  been  just  as  much 
right  if  we'd  been  wrong.  If  you'd  been  asea  as  much 
as  I  have,  you'd  know.  Cant  gets  blown  off  the  decks, 
my  word  on  it — blown  off — even  if  it  is  only  the  JNIer- 
chant  Service —  Well, — ^you've  got  your  luck,  I've  got 
mine,  and  I'm  sticking  to  it.  A  long  life — I'm  safe  on 
that,  Lorrie;  I've  had  it:  that's  another  way  in  which 
we  old  chaps  score,  ever  occur  to  you  ? — good  health  and 
a  stomach  for  drink,  thank  the  Lord,  and  my  Patsey. 
Holy  Mary  bless  her  for  the  best  woman  in  the  world ! 
A  good  woman,  and  these  girls  come  with  her,  and  what 
does  it  matter  if  they're  not  my  own?  You  don't  think 
of  that,  not  with  a  woman  like  Patsey." 

"Yes,  you're  well  off,  all  right.  Mariner.  You're  to 
be  envied.    I  wish  more  women  were  like  Patsey." 

"Of  course  I  don't  deny  we'd  rather  have  that  Tofty 
chap  and  that  Lance  chap  out  of  the  house.  They're 
in  the  way — rather  not  have  'em  about.  Pretty  good 
fellows,  but  only  pretty  good.  Still,  you  can't  have 
everything;  we  need  the  money.  Couldn't  get  along 
without  it.    Well,  that 's  not  much. ' ' 

He  drank  again,  and  so  did  Lawrance,  but  without  the 
other's  release  of  mind.  Lawrance  found  himself  re- 
sisting the  liquor 's  happy  advance :  he  wanted  to  be  free 
for  Olga ;  he  wanted  his  normal  state  for  her. 

"What's  going  to  happen  to-night?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. "How  about  my  taking  Olga  to  some  show  in 
town  for  her  birthday  ? ' ' 

The  Mariner  nodded  indulgently  from  his  peaceful 
heights.    "She's  a  child  yet,  Olga  is,"  he  meditated. 


52  A  CHASTE  MAN 

''Child  yet.  Girls  are  different.  Doris  now,  when  she 
was  only  fourteen — quite  different  to  Olga —  But  peo- 
ple fuss  too  much  about  sex,  they  always  have.  What  I 
say  is,  a  man  should  take  it  clean  and  straight,  as  he 
takes  his  liquor.  Clean  and  straight —  I'll  tell  you 
something,  my  boy;  I  wouldn't  tell  everj^body."  He 
paused,  and  finished  his  tumbler.  "I  don't  like  the 
Irish." 

Lawrance  knew  what  was  coming.  His  anticipation 
of  the  so  habitual  sequel  was  warm  and  pleasant  to  him. 
He  began  to  be  less  occupied  with  Olga.  He  gave  his 
whiskey  to  a  more  confederate  palate.  "Why,  the  first 
evening  they  ever  drank  together,  that  evening  when 
Bassett,  the  man  who  used  to  be  on  the  Oxford  Telegraph 
and  then  went  off  to  British  Columbia,  had  ' '  trotted  him 
round,"  as  he  put  it,  "to  see  a  queer  old  fish  I  know  up 
in  North  London" — at  that  very  first  meeting  the 
Mariner  had  talked  about  the  Irish.  So  much  the  bet- 
ter—    The  second  year  at  Oxford,  wasn  't  it  ? 

**I  don't  like  the  Irish.  I  hate  them.  My  father  was 
half  Irish,  but  thank  God  for  it,  he  married  a  Welsh- 
woman, and  his  mother  was  English  all  through — North- 
country.  I  hate  the  Irish  and  all  their  damned  ways. 
They're  a  slave  race;  they're  bullies  and  cads  and 
slaves;  there  never  was  an  Irish  gentleman  yet,  and 
there  never  will  be !  Home  Rule  for  'em !  They  want  a 
Russian  government;  they  want  Peter  the  Great  and 
the  knout, — Ulster  as  well !  A  quarrelsome,  treacherous, 
underhanded,  lewd-chaste  set  of  swine ! ' ' 

Lawrance  laughed.  He  was  almost  as  happy  as  the 
old  man  with  this  familiar  invective.  It  soothed  and 
cheered  and  diverted  him,  this  jolly  malice.  It  was  a 
free  explosion  of  extravagant  vigour:  sign  of  a  robust 


A  CHASTE  MAN  53 

emotional  animus,  without  rancour's  thin  edge.  A  dia- 
tribe of  red  corpuscles,  un jaundiced  altogether. 
"I  see  you  believe  in  indictments  of  nations." 
"And  I  do.  It  was  some  damned  politician  said  you 
couldn't.  Some  one  who  didn't  know  the  Irish;  no 
politician  does,  whether  he's  Irish  or  not.  I've  seen 
enough  of  'em  in  Ireland  and  in  America —  Must  be 
something  wrong  with  America:  hundred  millions — is 
it? — and  not  a  dozen  decent  cellars  among  the  lot  of 
'em! —  They  say  an  Irishman  always  gets  on  outside 
his  own  country;  so  he  does;  he  gets  on  the  top  and 
stinks  there.  He  can't  get  on  in  Ireland  because  he's 
made  the  whole  country  stink  with  him —  English  op- 
pression !  Stuff  and  nonsense !  They  whine  about  Eng- 
lish oppression;  look  at  their  faces,  then  you'll  under- 
stand. What  they  want  is  old  Oliver  back  again — that's 
a  name  for  you ;  be  proud  you  have  it,  boy ;  proud  you 
have  it;  Lord!  my  name's  Michael — 'Michael'! —  They 
want  a  Cromwell  to  say  to  'em :  '  Now,  you  be  decent, 
you  curs,  or  we'll  smash  you  to  pieces!'  They're  dan- 
gerous dogs;  they've  poisoned  teeth.  Don't  tell  me 
there's  no  sedition  over  there  now —  Their  whiskey's 
the  only  good  thing  they  have,  that  and  their  porter :  but 
they  drink  worse  than  Germans,  too;  drink  themselves 
into  a  worse  damnation  than  they're  in  when  they're 
sober.  As  for  religion,  they  aren't  Catholics:  they're  a 
disgrace  and  a  blight  to  the  Faith;  they're  a  blasphemy! 
They  weren't  worthy  of  it;  they  corrupted  it;  they 
turned  it  to  rot!  Mother  of  God!  Look  at  the  Latin 
countries!  They'd  kick  the  Irish  priests  into  their  cess- 
pools there.  Thank  God  for  it,  I  'm  a  Catholic  of  Spain. 
Born  and  baptized  in  Toledo.  Patsey  and  Olga  are 
Catholics  of  Russia.    Priests  in  Ireland  take  the  girls 


54  A  CHASTE  MAN 

and  boys  and  drive  the  sexuality  back  into  their  blood 
and  let  it  fester !     It 's  Puritanism  ranker  and  more  mor- 
bid— putrified  by  the  lewd  prying  priest!     It's  a  thing 
that  hasn  't  happened  in  any  other  country  in  the  world 
it  couldn't  happen.     They've  no  love-songs  in  Ireland 
all  their  love-songs  have  the  fear  of  Hell  before   'em 
they're  thin  as  dillwater.     They  talk  of  Irish  poetry! 
It's  the  poetry  of  thin  souls  that  have  been  weak  enough 
to  be  whipped  out  of  their  bodies.    The  Gaelic  School! 
Puh !    It 's  wails  and  snivels  and  me  and  my  baby,  we  're 
unhappy ;  listen  to  my  dreams  and  give  me  tuppence ! — 
For  God's  sake,  Lorrie,  let's  get  to  that  other  bottle!" 

He  went  on,  with  freer  and  freer  flux  of  speech,  gave 
final  damnation  to  the  Irish,  mellowing  each  acrid  word, 
passed  from  them  to  some  talk  of  his  travels  in  British 
East  Africa — "British  East,"  he  called  it — and  then  de- 
bouched abruptly  to  the  subject  of  genius. 

"All  it  comes  to,  Lorrie,"  he  told  him,  "is  that  they 
go  straight  at  things,  and  other  people  go  crooked. 
They're  lots  more  of  'em  about  than  we  ever  hear  of, 
but  only  one  in  a  thousand  happens  to  get  switched  on 
to  painting  or  writing  or  that  kind  of  a  job.  A  good 
doctor's  the  best  judge  of  genius  going — a  good  surgeon 
better  still.  I'd  take  a  surgeon's  opinion  on  a  book  a 
long  way  before  a  critic 's.  They  know.  You  can 't  fool 
them.  They  know  if  a  chap  goes  straight.  Women  are 
the  worst  judges  of  all — ^born  to  go  sideways,  like  crabs. 
If  a  book  pleases  a  woman,  it's  damned  forever.  Wom- 
en's souls  move  sideways." 

* '  Yes,  I  believe  that. ' '  Lawrance  spoke  warmly,  think- 
ing of  Muriel. 

He  looked  at  the  old  man  with  a  deepening  affection ; 
he  felt  himself  spiritually  enfolded  with  him,  the  bond 


A  CHASTE  MAN  55 

between  them  lay  set  and  signed  and  sealed.  It  Was  of 
the  Mariner,  he  thought,  that  Muriel  should  be  jealous: 
yes,  she  should  be  jealous  of  this  union  that  was  as  real 
as  theirs  was  sham.  Lawranee  fed  his  heart  on  the  old 
man's  voice;  the  sound  was  that  of  a  ritual  enforced  and 
endeared  by  often  repetition,  and  the  actual  words  no 
less,  for  Lawranee  had  heard  them  before,  over  and  over : 
they  held  him  in  a  firmer  clasp  for  that.  He  needed 
their  sense  no  more  than  a  devotee  needs  the  sense  of  the 
words  of  the  Mass. 

The  room,  as  the  young  man  looked  round  it,  seemed 
a  temple  dedicated  to  the  Mariner's  self.  Lawranee 's 
slowly-shifting  gaze  embraced  devotedly  the  stained 
clipped  sideboard,  the  worn  horsehair  sofa  and  chairs,  the 
long  deal  table  with  its  green  cloth  torn  and  frayed,  the 
heavy  gas-chandelier  over  it,  the  red  excoriated  old  car- 
pet underneath,  the  pictures  of  ships  on  the  faded  brown 
walls,  the  engraving  of  **  Boston  Harbor,  1876,"  ugly  and 
dirty,  a  pious  and  patient  vindication  of  the  past.  And 
it  was  all  this  that  Muriel  grudged  him !  But  he  forgot 
Muriel,  he  forgot  Olga,  as  the  old  man's  voice  went  on. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  whiskey  of  the  second  bottle  had  receded 
some  two  inches  below  the  top  of  the  yellow 
label  when  Mrs.  Flynn  came  in  to  them. 

"Do  you  want  any  tea?"  she  asked. 

"Tea,  Patsey,  tea?"  The  old  man  shook  his  head. 
" Come  and  sit  with  us.  I  know  what  you'd  like.  Glass 
of  milk  and  a  drop,  eh  ?     Come  along. ' ' 

"Yes,  come  on,  my  dear,  and  I'll  fetch  the  milk," 
Lawrance  got  up  to  go  to  the  kitchen.  * '  Yes,  I  will.  I 
want  to." 

He  noticed  that  Mrs.  Flynn  looked  tired,  though  her 
eyes  smiled  still.  He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  put  her 
into  a  chair  by  the  Mariner's  side. 

The  kitchen  door  was  open,  and  Doris's  voice  was 
plainly  heard  as  Lawrance  left  the  dining-room. 

"And  you  needn't  tell  me  you  didn't  like  holding 
hands  with  him !    I  saw  you,  the  way  you  looked ! ' ' 

"Yes,  I  did  like  his  holding  me — " 

"Holding  you!  What  do  you  mean?  He  wasn't 
holding  you ;  he  was  holding  your  hand.  I  'd  be  ashamed. 
Oh,  you're  the  nice  good  qui-ert  girl,  you  are.  Butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  your  mouth,  I  don't  think !  I  wouldn't 
like  to  look  the  way  you  do — it's  horrid !" 

"How  do  I  look?" 

"You  know  how  you  look.  You —  Oh,  Mr.  Law- 
rance! You  gave  me  quite  a  turn.  We've  washed  up 
all  the  things,  and  we're  getting  ready  for  supper." 

56 


A  CHASTE  MAN  57 

*  *  Oh.     I  'm  afraid  you  've  a  lot  to  do. '  * 

He  looked  at  Olga,  who  stood  pressed  back  against  the 
dresser,  as  though  she  had  been  forced  into  that  position 
for  defence.  She  supported  herself  by  her  hands  that 
had  been  swollen  and  blanched,  slightly,  by  the  hot 
water;  her  childlike  body  was  bent  a  little  back.  Law- 
rance  noticed  his  bracelet  on  her  wrist.  She  caught  his 
eye. 

*  *  I  do  like  it ! "  she  said,  holding  her  arm  up  to  him. 
She  straightened  herself.  "I  went  upstairs  and  took  it 
out  and  put  it  on  in  my  bedroom."  Doris  gave  her  a 
quick  reprehending  glance.     "It's  lovely." 

She  made  an  uncertain  step  towards  him,  and  Law- 
rance  put  his  arms  out  to  her,  and  lifted  her  off  her 
feet.    How  light  she  was !    He  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  it!" 

"We  must  get  along  with  that  supper,"  said  Doris,  in 
a  cold  tone  of  necessary  preoccupation,  a  tone  that  was 
busy  and  detached.  "I'm  going  out  with  Fred  Bovey 
to  the  Pictures  to-night." 

"Well,  Olga,  you'll  come  with  me,  then.  We'll  have 
a  birthday  party  together.  We  '11  go  to  the  *  Trafalgar. ' 
Manon  Gauffroux's  singing  there  to-night;  she's  splen- 
did ;  you  '11  like  her.  Do  you  think  we  can  have  supper 
at  half -past  six,  Doris?  Good  Lord,  it's  nearly  six 
o'clock  now!" 

Marjorie  ran  in,  hugging  a  bottle  of  Sparkling  Bur- 
gundy. 

"I  got  it!"  she  cried.  "Mr.  Cramer  said  that  as  it 
was  me  it'd  be  only  three  and  nine.  It's  good,  too.  I 
saw  Fred  Bovey;  he  won't  take  me  to  the  Pictures  to- 
night ;  he  said  one  at  a  time  was  enough.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  after  supper,  Uncle  Lorrie?" 


58  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"He's  taking  Olga  to  the  'Traf.'  Don't  bother, 
Marj."    Doris  spoke  in  a  schoolteacher  tone. 

"Oo-er!"  The  little  girl  fell  to  extreme  gravity. 
"Mr.  Deavitt's  taking  me  to  the  'Coliseum.'  " 

"Look  here,  Marjorie;  hold  out  your  hand  and  see 
what  you'll  get!"  Lawrance  took  out  his  sovereign- 
case.  "Hold  it  out  straight !  There's  one !"  He  put  a 
half-sovereign  into  her  palm.  "And  two — three — 
four—" 

"Hold  your  hand  still,  Marjorie." 

"Don't  scream,  Marj  !    What  a  soft  kid  you  are!" 

* '  Eight,  nine,  and  ten !    There ! ' ' 

*  *  Oh,  they  are  pretty  I  Thank  you  awfully,  and  fancy, 
each  of  them 's  worth  ten  shillings,  isn  't  it !  Thank  you 
awfully!"  She  threw  one  arm  round  him:  her  little 
brown  hand  was  crowded  with  the  coins;  she  clenched 
it  and  held  it  stiffly  at  arm's  length. 

"Don't  thank  me.  Thank  your  black  devils.  That 
isn't  my  money." 

"Whose  is  it?" 

"It  belonged  to  the  people  who  are  going  to  put  your 
photograph  in  the  magazine. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes!  I'm  going  to  have  my  photograph  taken 
when  I  get  my  new  frock  and  my  new  stockings.  I'm 
not  ugly.  Uncle  Lorrie,  am  I?  Jimmy's  brother — ^he's 
fifteen — he  said  to  Jimmy:  *I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead 
with  that  ugly  kid,'  and  the  other  day  he  called  me 
'Facey'!  Cheek!  He  said:  'Here  comes  the  living 
skellington,  twopence  admission,  ladies  and  gents!'  he 
said.    Saucy  young  owl ! ' ' 

"Oh,  he's  jealous,  Marjorie,  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  him. ' ' 

**He  called  me  monkey-face,  and  said  they  wanted  me. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  59 

round  at  their  house  to  crack  nuts.  I  '11  look  nice  in  my 
new  frock,  though,  Uncle  Lorrie,  won't  I?  Don't  you 
think  I '11  look  nice?" 

' '  Goodnight !  The  kid  might  be  twenty,  the  way  she 
goes  on  about  her  blessed  looks !  It 's  about  time  you  put 
on  your  China  silk  decolletay  for  dinner  at  the  Carlton ! 
How  old  are  you,  Marj?  I  don't  know  what's  coming 
over  the  kids  these  days.  When  I  was  ten  I  didn  't  think 
of  anything  but  dolls  and  sweets.  I  didn't  think  of  the 
way  I  looked!  Why,  Marjie's  more  set  on  herself  than 
me  or  Olga!" 

* '  Get  on,  old  Doris.  Who 's  got  red  paint  on  her  lips, 
oo-er?  Fred  Bovey  got  it  all  over  his  mouf  the  other 
night,  and  his  cheeks  all  over  powder,  oo-er ! ' ' 

"Shut  up,  young  Marjorie!  It  isn't  true,  Mr.  Law- 
rance. ' ' 

'*He  did  look  a  sight!" 

* '  Spiteful  little  cat,  you  are ! ' ' 

*'01ga  doesn't  put  anything  on.  Olga  never  kisses 
any  one,  only  Uncle  Lorrie ! ' ' 

**0h,  yes.  Miss  Know-it-all !    Go  up  top,  smart  Jane !" 

**Well,  she  doesn't!" 

"You're  a  fair  nosey,  you  are,  to  beat  the  band!" 

*  *  Give  me  a  glass  of  milk  for  your  mother,  Doris. ' ' 

Lawrance  had  been  giving  Olga  thoughtful  looks.  She 
was  sitting  along  the  ledge  of  the  dresser,  with  her 
browny-green  skirt  crinkled  to  her  knees,  about  which 
there  showed  an  uneven  fringe  of  crumpled  white  petti- 
coat. Her  black-stockinged  legs,  from  her  knees,  dropped 
lightly  over  the  wooden  edge.  She  had  taken  a  red 
paper-covered  book  from  the  dresser,  and  was  reading  it, 
with  her  head  bent  forward  and  her  cheeks  caressed  by 
her  dark  fine  hair. 


60  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Can't  you  sit  nicely,  Olga?"  said  Doris  severely,  as 
she  gave  Lawrance  the  milk. 

Olga  gave  her  skirt  a  little  pull,  without  looking  up. 
Her  pallor  was  undisturbed.  Lawrance  glanced  at  her 
book,  and  saw  that  it  was  a  story  by  Paul  de  Kock,  picked 
up,  no  doubt,  by  the  INIariner,  who  let  the  girls  read  any- 
thing. "What  was  she  making  of  that  book?  Her  ex- 
pression told  him  nothing.  He  went  with  his  milk,  Mar- 
jorie  jumping  by  his  side,  her  right  hand  still  firmly  and 
possessively  clenched. 


L 


CHAPTER  VII 

** X"       ET'S  walk  to  the  Tube,  Olga,  shall  we?" 

The  girl  took  Lawrance's  arm.  She  looked 
two  or  three  years  older  now;  her  figure  was 
concealed  by  a  dusky-red  coat,  a  coat  of  heavy  stuff, 
coming  to  just  below  her  knees.  She  had  a  close-fitting 
green  velvet  cap,  and  her  long  hair  seemed  to  be  poured 
out  from  it  as  from  a  goblet.  She  seemed  a  girl  of  two 
or  three  generations  back;  she  suggested  a  photograph 
in  an  old  Album  or  an  illustration  out  of  a  magazine  of 
the  'seventies.  Lawrance  began  to  be  freshly  puzzled 
about  her  as  they  walked  down  the  Glasden  Road.  He 
associated  her  with  some  Scandinavian  country, — Nor- 
way or  Sweden — ^some  country  of  keen  long  frosts,  of 
sports  in  the  snow.  She  was  not  abstracted  now:  her 
green  clear  eyes  had  an  immediate  light;  she  walked 
quickly,  rather  nervously;  her  pressure  on  his  arm  had 
conscious  life,  life  of  an  eager  and  uncertain  flow. 

' '  I  like  this  birthday,  Uncle  Lorrie, ' '  she  said. 

"So  do  I.  But  don't  call  me  'Uncle  Lorrie.'  I  don't 
want  to  be  an  uncle !  You  can 't  talk  to  uncles.  I  want 
you  to  talk  to  me,  to  tell  me  things  about  yourself :  you 
know — not  as  if  I  were  older — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  people  who  aren't  older.  I  never 
can  talk  to  them —  They  don't  like  me,  either.  If  I 
do  say  anything,  they  laugh." 

' '  That 's  only  because  they  're  stupid.  I  'm  not  stupid 
that  way,  Olga, — ^really — " 

61 


62  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"It's  hard  to  talk  to  people,  too,  if  you've  always 
known  them.  They  think  you  stay  the  same."  She 
frowned.  "Father  and  mother  are  like  that.  Every- 
thing seems  to  stay  the  same  with  them.  I  don't  know 
Why,  because  everything  really  gets  different,  doesn  't  it  ? 
Almost  every  day  it  gets  different — somehow  or  other — 
you  can't  keep  up  with  it.  I  can't.  And  nobody  else 
seems  to  be  interested." 

"When  did  things  begin  to  be  different?" 

"About  two  years  ago — " 

"Do  tell  me  about  it,  Olga!" 

He  pressed  her  arm.  He  wanted  to  bring  in  every 
sense  to  the  communication  between  them,  while  winnow- 
ing the  flesh  of  all  but  the  finer  grain  of  sympathy :  he 
wanted  the  finest  possible  touch,  the  only  touch  that  could 
bare  and  thrill  all  that  she  was.  Yet  he  knew  that  the 
girl's  looks  were  tremendously  important  to  him:  her 
pallor,  her  eyes  like  river-water  under  trees,  her  sudden 
red  lips,  her  frown  that  was  so  much  her  own,  the  lines 
of  her  transient  figure  that  he  guessed  at  now,  it  was  all 
so  necessary  I  His  sympathy  with  her  took  in  not  only 
her  physical  self,  but  even  her  clothes:  he  saw  the  little 
close  velvet  cap,  and  thought  of  the  line  it  would  leave 
in  her  hair,  of  the  difference,  when  she  took  it  off,  be- 
tween the  hair  that  had  been  imprisoned  and  the  hair 
that  had  been  free.  No,  he  could  never  forget  that  she 
was  a  girl,  it  was  the  friendship  of  her,  being  a  girl, 
that  he  longed  for :  a  friendship  physically  involved,  but 
not  physically  dominated  ...  a  friendship  that  de- 
manded her  looks,  but  not  her  embraces.  He  could 
anticipate  only  vaguely:  this  was  something  he  never 
had  had. 

He  waited  for  the  answer  that  she  did  not  give  him, 


A  CHASTE  MAN  63 

at  once.  But  she  slackened  her  pace ;  he  could  feel  that 
she  was  thinking,  remembering. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  said  at  last.  *'0r  it  isn't 
really  that  I  don't  know,  but  when  I  think  of  the  words 
for  it,  they  seem  to  mean  something  quite  different —  It 
was  in  the  spring,  and  we  were  in  the  country,  and  all 
the  trees,  and  the  sky,  and  the  roads  and  the  fields,  and 
the  houses,  too,  seemed  to  be  suddenly  quite  new;  they 
were  alive  and  they  felt,  and  I  liked  them  very  much; 
I  loved  them — but  that  doesn  't  say  what  it  was !  "Words 
don't  do  much,  do  they?" 

''How  about  poetry?" 

"No,  it  doesn't,  quite — not  for  me.  I  mean  that  the 
poetry  I've  read  belongs  to  some  one  else;  I  don't  feel 
that  it 's  for  me.  I  used  to  read  a  lot  of  it — Shelley  and 
Keats;  I  read  nearly  all  of  them,  but  it  wasn't  really — 
or  they  said  it  in  a  way  I  couldn't  understand.  Of 
course  it's — it's  beautiful.  But  music  is  better;  that's 
more  like  what  I  feel.  And — I  don't  know — it  sounds 
silly,  but  there's  something  about  flowers.  It's  the  same 
with — well,  with  the  weather,  and  some  people  who  are 
nice  to  look  at.  They're — well,  they're  there,  they're 
themselves,  you  see,  and  poetry  and  music  are  only 
things  made  up  about  the  other  things  that  really  do 
mean — "  She  stopped  suddenly,  and  gave  him  one  of 
her  apprehensive  glances.  "  It 's  silly  to  talk, ' '  she  said. 
"It  spoils  things." 

"It  doesn't,  Olga  dear;  it  makes  them  awfully  inter- 
esting. I  want  you  to  talk —  Look  here,  don't  let's  go 
by  Tube;  let's  take  this  cab.  It'll  be  much  nicer."  He 
hailed  it. 

When  they  were  inside  he  took  her  gloved  hand,  which 
she  took  away  from  him.    Her  face  was  grave:  gravely 


64  A  CHASTE  MAN 

she  removed  the  glove  and  gave  him  her  bare  hand.  He 
held  it  lightly.     It  seemed  alive  with  her. 

' '  Oh,  Olga ! "  he  said  strugglingly .     "  I  do  like  you ! ' ' 

**I  thought  so."  She  smiled  with  pleasure:  her  teeth 
were  small;  they  looked  peculiarly  brittle.  "I  thought 
you  did  like  me  to-day.  That  was  nicer  than  the  brace- 
let!" 

"It's  nicer  than  anything,  to  me,  your  feeling  that  it 
was!"    Lawrance  paled  with  excitement. 

"You're  the  only  one  that  does  like  me,  I  think.  Fa- 
ther and  mother  do,  of  course,  but  they  would  anyhow." 

"Do  you  mind  that  ?  Do  you  mind  not  being  liked  by 
these  boys  and  girls  ? ' ' 

"No.  I  don't  exactly  mind  not  being  liked.  I  think 
I  mind  my  not  liking  them.  I  mind  their  being  all  the 
same  as  each  other ;  I  mind  their  seeming  all  the  same  to 
me,  because  they  can't  be  really,  can  they?  Doris  was 
different  when  she  was  little,  but  she  isn't  different  at  all 
now.  I  like  some  of  the  very  little  girls  and  boys ;  even 
when  they're  alike,  they're  alike  in  a  nice  way.  I  like 
Marjorie  sometimes.  I  don't  dislike  the  older  ones,  you 
know.  I  only  don't  like  them.  But  some  of  them  dis- 
like me.  You  can  teU  by  the  way  they  look,  and  the 
things  they  say." 

"You  haven't  any  boy  friends  at  all,  then,  Olga?" 

"No,  but  I  like  boys  better;  they're  shy,  some  of  them 
are.  You  know  what  I  mean:  you  feel  there's  some- 
thing they  don't  show;  it's — ^mysterious;  it's  something 
like  dreams.  It's  something  that  has  a  meaning;  some- 
thing that" — she  frowned — "well,  it  seems  to  be  some- 
thing that  won 't  stay  the  same,  and  yet  in  a  way  it  does, 
because  it  reminds  you  of  some  time  hundreds  of  years 
ago,  and  hundreds  of  years  later  on,  too —    It's  like 


A  CHASTE  MAN  65 

dreams.    It's  something  that  we  're  inside  of — in  a  way. ' ' 

"You  feel  like  this  about  all  the  boys?" 

"Yes,  unless  they're  ugly." 

"Do  go  on  telling  me  about  it,  Olga.  It's  tremen- 
dously interesting." 

"But  I  can't  tell  you — not  properly.  I  can  think  it, 
but  thoughts  don't  go  in  words,  do  they?  You  can  think 
anything — almost — ^but  it  won't  get  into  words.  Why 
don 't  you  tell  me  ?    Words  are  much  easier  for  you. ' ' 

"Good  heavens!  They  aren't!"  Lawrance  thought 
of  the  kind  of  things  he  wrote  in  his  articles  and  reviews. 
"I  can't  say  anything — and  I  don't  feel  anything  worth 
saying.  I  wish  I  did.  I  suppose  I  did  once,  but  I've 
forgotten.  Mind  you  don't  forget! —  But  there  isn't 
any  particular  boy,  Olga,  is  there,  who  makes  you  feel 
like  this — ^more  than  another?" 

"No.  I  suppose  I  should  be  in  love  with  him, 
shouldn't  I,  if  there  were?    But,  Uncle  Lorrie — " 

"'Uncle'  again!" 

*  *  I  don 't  feel  that  I  come  into  it — ^not  myself,  I  mean. 
I  suppose  if  you're  in  love  it's  all  you  and  the  other 
person  and  no  one  else,  isn't  it?  I  don't  think  Doris  is 
ever  in  love,  not  really.  She  isn't  happy.  I'm  sorry 
about  Doris. ' ' 

"I  don't  think  Doris  is  very  nice  to  you." 

' '  I  don 't  mind  the  things  she  says.  I  wish  she  would 
be  really  in  love.  She  doesn't  ever  look  as  if  she  was. 
She 's  the  same  as  the  others.  They  all  have  their  boys ; 
sometimes  they  change  about,  and  that  means  it  was  a 
mistake,  doesn't  it? —  Doris  changes  about  a  lot. 
There's  one  girl,  Herga  Ashdon,  they  all  say  she's — 
they  say  she's  the  limit,  but  I  don't  mind  it  with  her, 
somehow.    It  seems  all  right ;  it  seems  the  way  she  was 


66  A  CHASTE  MAN 

meant  to —  She's  different,  and  she's  happy.  Perhaps 
Marjorie  will  be  like  that.  But  there's  something  wrong 
about  the  others,  I  know  there  is.  It's  like  something 
that  hasn't  grown  properly  and  gets  in  the  way ;  they  get 
it  all  wrong  for  themselves.  Don't  you  think  it's  better 
to  wait — to  stay  out?  Then  you'll  get  it  right?  Then 
you'd  be  happy,  wouldn't  ycu?" 

"Yes."  Lawrance  trembled  with  agitation.  *'Yes," 
he  repeated  under  stress:  and  added,  almost  harshly. 
"Don't  be  like  the  others,  Olga,  for  God's  sake!" 

"I  don't  want  all  that.  I  don't  want  their  sort  of 
kissing  and  being  together  and  making  love.  "Why 
should  I,  if  I  don't  want  to?  Doris  seems  to  think  I 
ought.  She  seems  to  think  it's  a  sort  of  spite  to  her 
that  I  don't.  I  can't.  It  would  only  be  all  wrong  and 
ugly;  it  would  only  hurt.  I  think  of  something  quite 
different,  and  nobody  comes  into  that.  Nobody  does: 
not  even  a  person  I've  never  seen.  I  don't  imagine  a 
person.  What  Doris  does  is  pretending — at  least  it 
seems  pretending  to  me.  I'm  sorry  about  Doris.  You 
don't  know,  because  she's  quite  different  when  you're 
there.  I  can't  think  why  she  goes  with  Fred  Bovey, 
because  she's  either  very  cross  afterwards,  or  else  she's 
sad,  and  she  keeps  on  being  cross  or  sad  nearly  all  the 
time  till  she  sees  him  again.  The  other  night  she  cried 
a  lot.  She  scolded  Marjorie,  then  she  scolded  me, — she 
looked  as  if  she  hated  me, — and  then  when  we  went  up 
to  bed  she  cried  most  awfully ;  she  said  she  'd  been  a  bad 
girl  and  she  wished  she  hadn't.  Then  she  stopped  cry- 
ing, and  was  angrier  than  ever;  she  said  I  was  a  pious 
mule  and  I  made  her  sick.  She  said  I  might  think  my- 
self pretty,  but  the  boys  didn't,  anyhow,  and  they  never 
would,  I  was  such  a  fool.    I  remember  everything  she 


A  CHASTE  MAN  67 

said.  It  is  funny  that  I  remember  it  all  so  clearly  just 
that  one  time.    I  don't  like  remembering  it." 

*  'Don't  think  about  things  like  that.  Doris  is  nervous, 
you  know.  You're  all  three  of  you  rather  nervous  girls — 
Nerves,  that  was  all —  Do  you  know  what  I  should  like, 
Olga?  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  take  you  right  away, 
as  if  I  were  your  brother;  I  should  like  to  take  you 
abroad — " 

' '  Would  the  people  be  different  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  people  aren't  the  same  everywhere  as  they  are 
in  North  London —  I  wish  you  didn't  go  to  that  Busi- 
ness College  place;  you  must  feel  frightfully  lonely — " 

"No,  I'm  not  lonely.  There  are  such  lots  of  things — 
I  don't  know —  No,  I'm  never  lonely,  not  even  when 
I  'm  with  lots  of  other  people. ' ' 

** You've  never  really  talked  to  me  before,  Olga.  You 
will  a^ain,  won 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Suppose  it  isn't  the  same  another  time?" 

"What  do  you  mean ?    Of  course  it  will  be  the  same." 

"You  know," — she  spoke  after  a  pause — "I  wish  he'd 
go — Unele  Tofty — ^we  don't  like  him — ^not  really. 
Mother  doesn't,  I  don't,  nor  Doris,  either.  He's  horrid, 
I  'm  sure  he 's  horrid ! ' ' 

"Oh."  Lawrance  could  not  feel  much  interested  in 
Mr.  Tofton.     "Your  father— why  doesn't  he—?" 

"Oh,  Father — he  never  hates  anybody." 

"I  wonder  why — this  time — ^you  talked  to  me?" 

"I  knew  I  was  going  to  talk  to  you  to-night,  because 
you  liked  me. ' ' 

"Haven't  I  always  been  fond  of  you?" 

"You're  different  to-day.  You  were  different  directly 
you  came  in  this  morning." 

"Do  tell  me  how." 


68  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I  don't  know  how." 

They  were  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road.  Olga  took 
her  hand  from  him  and  began  putting  on  her  glove. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  again  till  they  reached  the  ' '  Traf- 
algar," Lawrance  had  been  all  the  while  shy  with  her, 
afraid  of  saying  the  wrong  thing,  of  taking  what  she  said 
in  the  wrong  way.  He  had  picked  his  few  slow  words 
with  nervous  caution.  He  felt  safer  now  that  he  had  lost 
her  hand,  more  on  equal  terms.  *  *  She 's  my  sister,  she 's 
my  friend, ' '  he  repeated  to  himself,  and :  "If  you  spoil 
this,  you  're  a  fool !    You  know  what  she  is. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THEY  went  in,  dazzled  from  the  darkened  streets. 
The  place  was  crowded  with  people,  crowded 
with  voices,  crowded  with  light.  Olga  held 
back;  she  took  Lawrance's  arm.  ''It's  like  when  you 
wake  up  after  taking  gas,"  she  said.  ''It's  like  a  dream 
with  the  night  all  round  it ! " 

A  man  by  them  heard  her  and  smiled.  Lawrance  no- 
ticed, with  acute  antagonism :  ' '  Yes,  it  is ! "  he  empha- 
sized his  answer.  He  wanted  to  say  more,  but  couldn  't ; 
he  felt  more  uncertain  of  himself,  more  incapable  of  the 
right  kind  of  answer  than  ever.  "And  be  damned  to 
you,  sir ! "  he  would  have  said  to  the  man. 

He  saw  that  Olga  was  observed,  and  observed  more 
closely  and  more  generally  after  she  had  taken  off  her 
coat.  A  spare,  straight,  middleaged  man  in  evening 
dress,  with  a  quick  unbelieving  eye  and  a  careful  grey 
moustache — a  man  whose  impress  of  breeding  was  as 
assuringly  stamped  through  as  the  watermark  of  a  Bank 
of  England  note — said  something  in  a  dropped  voice  to 
his  companion,  and  they  both  looked  at  Lawrance  and 
Olga  with  remote  impersonal  insolence,  in  their  way. 
Olga,  with  her  plain  pearl-grey  frock,  and  her  rich  hair, 
simply  tied,  was  unembarrassed,  absorbed  by  the  scene. 

They  sat  through  several  rather  dull  "turns."  "It's 
stupid  now,"  Lawrance  whispered  her,  "but  you'll  like 
Manon  Gauffroux,  and  I've  seen  those  Spanish  dancers. 
They're  really  good." 

69 


70  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I  like  watching  their  faces,"  said  the  girl,  "even  if 
it's  stupid,  what  they  do." 

Lawrance  kept  looking  at  her:  he  had  not  seen  her 
like  this,  under  a  continuous  preoccupation  with  outside 
things,  since  she  was  a  little  girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen, 
before  his  marriage.  He  remembered  how  he  had  taken 
her  with  Doris  to  Maskelyne  and  Devant's.  But  her 
former  preoccupation  was  different ;  it  had  come  of  itself : 
she  was  personally  involved  now ;  she  was,  in  a  new  way, 
responsible.  Her  red  lips  had  parted  then;  now  they 
were  closed ;  her  eyes  went  out  to  the  scene ;  they  did  not 
wait  to  be  reached.  Gradually  a  flush  grew  in  her 
cheeks,  diversifying  her  beauty.  That  delicate  colour, 
delicate  as  a  reflected  sunset,  was  not  at  all  the  colour  of 
a  child.  Lawrance  looked  at  the  girls  near  him :  Olga  's 
face  was  more  mature  than  any  of  theirs,  much  more 
mature:  yet  their  course  was  set  for  these  others;  hers 
was  not  set  for  her.  Olga  had  a  hundred  hints  of  change ; 
she  baffled  any  view  of  her  future  aspect.  The  contrast 
between  her  face  and  her  flgure,  with  its  lines  of  earliest 
girlhood,  was  more  and  more  exquisite:  no  one  could 
have  more  perfectly  corresponded  to  the  term  "femme- 
enf ant. ' '  Lawrance  rejoiced  and  was  sad :  he  wished  to 
be  confederate  with  the  genii  of  her  growth ;  he  feared 
he  would  be  withheld.  His  sense  of  her  was  much  too 
diffused  for  the  admission  to  it,  at  that  moment,  of  any 
usual  male  desire;  she  was  there  for  him  still  as  his  "sis- 
ter,"  his  "  child. " 

When  the  Interval  came,  she  put  her  hands  to  her 
cheeks  and  turned  to  him,  laughing. 

"They're  quite  hot!"  she  cried.  "See!"  She  took 
his  hand  and  touched  her  cheek  with  his  knuckles, 
♦'^hall  we  go  and  walk  about?" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  Tl 

**Yes.  "We'll  have  an  ice — or  something  to  drink? 
Which  would  you  rather?" 

The  Promenade  resounded  with  the  emphatic  presence 
of  foreign  prostitutes,  all  of  them  dressed  with  a  defiant 
expensiveness.  They  were  mainly  Parisian  and  Bel- 
gian, exiles  of  the  war.  They  roamed  with  exaggerated 
steps;  they  had  the  air  of  watchful  repose  peculiar  to 
the  higher  grades  of  their  profession.  Some  of  them 
were  arrestingly  exotic.  "There's  La  Marquise,"  said 
a  man 's  voice  near  them.  * '  Don 't  you  remember  ?  Used 
to  be  at  the  Chat  Maigre."  "ha.  Marquise"  was  tall  and 
thin,  in  a  white  dress  slashed  by  great  black  bars.  She 
swept  slowly  by,  with  disdainful  dominance,  her  black 
eyes  were  deep-set,  burnt  in;  she  wore  her  red-brown 
hair  dropped  in  dense  coils  behind  the  nape  of  her  neck ; 
her  mouth  was  an  unnatural  tiny  red  spot  in  the  midst 
of  the  dead  unfleshly  whiteness  expanded  over  her  cheeks 
and  bosom. 

Olga  looked  intently  at  her.  "Does  she  live  here?" 
she  whispered.     ' '  Do  they  all  live  here  ? ' ' 

Lawrance  hurried  on  to  the  refreshment  place,  and 
they  sat  down. 

"Everybody  seems  to  be  moving  about  as  though  it 
were  all  arranged  beforehand, ' '  she  said.  Her  eyes  were 
very  bright. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  exactly  whether  you  like  it  or  not — " 

"Ah,  Mr.  Lawrance!" 

Lord  Burpham's  voice,  somewhat  mannered  in  its 
crispness  and  the  judged  balance  of  its  tone,  accosted  the 
young  man.     He  turned.     "Well,  sir!" 

The  other  shook  hands  negligently  with  him. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  where  Mr.  Ralston  is  this 


72  A  CHASTE  MAN 

week-end,  do  you  ?  I  particularly  want  to  get  a  message 
to  him  to-morrow. ' ' 

"Yes,  he's  down  at  Horley." 

"Ah.  Thanks.  I  know  the  address."  The  man 
glanced  at  Olga;  he  looked  a  shade  puzzled  for  a  mo- 
ment. * '  Ah. ' '  He  hesitated.  "  I  've  mislaid  my  friend ; 
the  place  is  so  crowded." 

"Why  not  sit  down  here?" 

"Good.     Quite." 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss — to  my  sister.  Olga, 
this  is  Lord  Burpham." 

Olga  looked  with  a  quick  interested  smile ;  she  took  the 
introduction  without  a  trace  of  embarrassment.  Lord 
Burpham  gave  her  a  bow  the  gallantry  of  which  had  a 
dash  of  humour,  for  recognition  of  Olga's  youth.  He 
was  pleased  by  her ;  he  relaxed ;  he  was  genially  paternal, 
with  at  the  same  time  a  discreet  and  happy,  an  unim- 
peachable, eye  to  her  sex. 

"Well,  Miss  Lawrance,  and  what  do  you  think  of  the 
show?"  She  started,  but  very  slightly,  at  the  name. 
"I've  only  just  come  in,  myself.  To  hear  the  Gauffroux 
girl." 

"Yes,  that's  why  we  came."  Lawrance  interrupted 
out  of  nervousness. 

"Ah.  I  suppose  that's  why  most  of  us  have  come. 
Nothing  much  else,  is  there?  But  of  course  one  must 
see  Manon  Gauffroux.    Of  course." 

He  went  on  throwing  out  an  unimportant  sentence  or 
two  at  intervals,  and  Lawrance,  still  nervous,  and  with 
a  feeling  of  incompetence,  put  in  what  words  he  could 
bring  to  mind.  Olga  remained  silent.  Once  or  twice 
she  gave  Lord  Burpham  a  clear,  full,  but  momentary 
glance.    He  was  a  tall  man  of  between  forty  and  fifty, 


A  CHASTE  MAN  73 

slightly  stooped,  with  a  high  permanent  colour ;  it  seemed 
impossible  that  he  should  ever  either  pale  or  be  flushed. 
His  grey  eyes  were  both  wary  and  naive ;  his  long  thin 
face  descended  steeply  to  a  well  regulated  dark-amber 
moustache;  he  presented  lengthened  straight  lines  of 
dark  eyebrow,  a  withdrawing  yet  aptly  modelled  nose, 
with  nostrils  that  had  a  sensitiveness  that  seemed  to  be 
held  in  check  by  his  acute,  directing  rather  than  con- 
trolling jaw.  His  hair  was  sparse,  of  a  faded  light 
brown,  carefully  smoothed  and  arranged  because  of  its 
sparseness.  He  suggested  a  legally  defined  property  in 
his  own  features.  A  safe  man,  with  few  possible  sur- 
prises. 

''It's  the  lack  of  the  sense  of  relation,"  he  was  say- 
ing, having  passed,  as  he  always  did,  by  speedy  transi- 
tion, to  his  hobby  of  architecture,  a  hobby  to  which  he 
was  under  resolute  bond.  "When  people  build  nowa- 
days, they  don't  build  in  any  sort  of  relation  to  the  time 
in  which  they  live.  They  imitate:  they  don't  think  of 
their  age  and  its  condition,  its  needs.  Look  at  this  pre- 
posterous theatre.  And  it's  the  same  everywhere. 
There's  not  a  single  modern  building  in  London.  All 
imitations, — er — harkbacks,  you  know.  No  reality  about 
them,  no  life.    You  see  what  I  mean,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Olga,  speaking  almost  for  the  first  time, 
"but  they  get  it,  don't  they?  They  get  life  after  awhile. 
Everything  does, — ^you  only  have  to  leave  it." 

Lord  Burpham  looked  at  her  questioningly,  with  a 
slight  surprise  and  a  slight  impatience.  He  hesitated, 
and  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  table.  It  was  a  little  un- 
comfortable, this  switching  him  off  from  his  lines  of 
usual  travel. 

"Ah!"    He  recovered  himself  with  a  smile.    "You 


74  A  CHASTE  MAN 

know,  there  is  something  in  that.  I  quite  take  your 
point.  Of  course  a  building  does  become  less  of  a — er — a 
flaming  anachronism — yes — as  time  goes  on.  Simply  be- 
cause we  get  used  to  it.  Gets  toned  down.  Takes  its 
impress  in  a  sort  of  way — yes.  But  how  much  better 
it  would  be,  my  dear  young  lady,  if  the  harmony  were 
there  from  the  first !    Don 't  you  really  think  so, — ah  ? ' ' 

*'I  don't  know —  But  I  like  all  these  new  buildings. 
I  like  the  'Trafalgar' — because  they're,  well,  because 
they're  Londony." 

"Yes;  well — "  Lord  Burpham  was  indulgent.  "Of 
course  London  has  so  much  character  that  it  can  stand 
most  kinds  of — er — architectural  outrage.  I  agree  there. 
But  you'd  find  that  the  right  sort  of  buildings — the  sort 
we're  trying  for — would  be  quite  as  'Lcndony,'  and  in  a 
much  more  intelligent  way." 

"What  would  they  be  like?" 

The  question  replaced  Lord  Burpham  happily  in  his 
accustomed  track.  His  eyes  became  less  wary,  more 
naive.  He  began  to  talk  at  once  of  the  rejection  of  old 
models,  the  elimination  of  the  Gothic,  the  Doric,  the 
Georgian,  the  Renaissance  Italian,  of  * '  all  the  sterile  imi- 
tation forms";  he  emphasized  the  need  for  simplicity, 
economy,  he  explained  that  nothing  must  be  allowed  that 
did  not  "minister  to  a  need  of  modern  life." 

"No  clash  with  the  old  buildings,  either,"  he  was  say- 
ing as  the  three-minute  bell  rang.  "Not  in  the  least,  not 
if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  way.  Architecture  should 
be  history, — one  generation  to  another,  and  each  genera- 
tion on  its  own  feet.  For  instance,  down  at  Lipscot,  in 
my  new  Wing  there,  we —  But  it's  time  for  Manon,  and 
besides  I  can't  show  you  properly  without  plans.  You 
can  explain  to  your  sister,  Mr.  Lawrance;  you've  been 


A  CHASTE  MAN  75 

down  to  Lipscot  with  Mr.  Ralston.  Better  still,  bring 
Miss  Lawrance  down  yourself.  Yes.  We'll  arrange  it 
when  I'm  next  at  the  OfSce.  But  you  take  the  general 
idea,  don't  you?    You  see  what  we're  getting  at?" 

**Yes — a  little,"  said  Olga,  as  they  rose.  **But 
wouldn  't  it  be  all  rather  like  a  sort  of  Exhibition  ? ' ' 

''Exhibition?  Not  at  all.  Absolutely  natural — abso- 
lutely fitting.  That's  the  whole  point."  Lord  Bur- 
pham's  tone  was  rather  magisterially  corrective,  but  his 
glance  at  the  girl  bringing  him  pleasure  in  her  being  so 
young  and  comely,  his  temper  changed.  "You'll  see 
when  you  come,"  he  went  on,  as  they  passed  along  the 
Promenade.  "We  must  fix  a  day  when  my  cousin  can 
be  there ;  he 's  one  of  the  very  few  architects  who  really 
understand — Crockerton  Deavitt — you  may  have — ah, 
Colby,  there  you  are — "  He  said  good-bye  to  them,  and 
joined  his  companion. 

Lawrance  looked  at  Olga  with  a  new  admiration.  He 
was  extremely  perturbed  by  the  developments  of  the  con- 
versation— the  invitation  to  Lipscot,  and  then  Crocker- 
ton  Deavitt!  It  was  now  probable  enough  that  his 
lie  about  Olga  being  his  sister  would  be  detected;  but 
admiration  for  Olga  was  his  uppermost  emotion,  and  he 
sought  refuge  in  it. 

She  was  wonderful ;  she  had  taken  Burpham  on  equal 
terms,  without  any  effort,  no  effort  in  the  least !  Now, 
if  it  had  been  Muriel !  Muriel  had  never  met  Lord  Bur- 
pham, but  if  she  had,  Lawrance  knew  quite  well  that 
somehow  or  other  she  would  have  betrayed  herself;  she 
would  have  shown  she  was  conscious  of  his  being  a  lord, 
however  hard  she  might  have  tried  not  to  show  it.  She 
would  have  been  thinking  all  the  while:  "Well,  I'm  a 
lady ;  his  having  a  title  doesn't  make  him  superior  to  me, 


76  A  CHASTE  MAN 

and  I  shall  behave  accordingly."  The  image  of  Muriel 
thus  struggling  and  failing  was  for  an  instant  pathetic 
to  her  husband :  it  pained  him  sharply ;  he  suffered  an 
unexpected  emotional  stab  in  that  "Poor  girl!"  that 
came  to  him.  He  suffered  too  from  the  fugitive  hint  that 
all  the  tenderness  that  had  once  been  so  strong  in  him  for 
"dear  little  Magsie,"  would  have  come  swift,  in  a  fine 
spontaneous  outflow,  to  protect  her  on  just  such  an  oc- 
casion as  that :  it  was  a  hint  that  he  suppressed ;  he  drove 
it  back,  but  not  out.  The  ghost  of  the  delicate  grave 
passion  of  old  days  kept  lodging  still  with  him,  however 
silent  and  remote. 

They  were  in  their  seats  again.  A  girl  with  abundant 
flaxen  hair  and  a  large  unnaturally  shining  bust  was 
giving  imitations  of  popular  actresses.  Lawrance  looked 
at  Olga  by  his  side  in  the  dim  light.  She  was  not, 
certainly  not,  in  the  usual  acceptance  of  the  term,  a 
"lady,"  neither  by  birth  nor  by  upbringing.  He  re- 
membered Muriel's  reference  to  the  Flynns:  "not  the 
sort  of  people  one  knows. ' '  Yet  Olga  * '  behaved ' '  better 
than  he  did  himself ;  her  soul,  certainly,  was  much  better 
mannered  than  his.  She  ignored,  on  the  securest  in- 
stinct, all  irrelevancy.  Perhaps  because  her  father,  the 
Polish  dancer,  had  been  really  an  artist.  .  .  .  Was  that 
why  she  had  sat  silent,  at  her  special  detached  ease,  till 
something  with  which  she  felt  a  personal  concern  was 
said?  Was  that  why,  when  she  did  speak,  she  spoke  so 
naturally,  altogether  without  that  intrusive  talkativeness 
that  girls,  leaving  girlish  silences,  make  their  usual 
plunges  for?  She  spoke  without  stupidity  and  without 
cleverness.  Yes,  Olga  was  neither  stupid  nor  clever; 
that  was  one  of  her  secrets ;  that  was  one  reason  why  her 
mind  was  unblighted.    Lawrance  *s  thoughts  of  Muriel 


A  CHASTE  MAN  77 

were  quite  mute  and  invisible  now :  his  pride  in  Olga  had 
banished  them  far.  Again  he  reverted  to  her  well-man- 
nered soul,  reflecting  that  he  himself,  in  his  early  days 
of  acquaintanceship  with  Lord  Burpham,  had  never  got 
quite  clear  of  the  title :  and  even  now  he  could  not  over- 
come a  repressed  consciousness  of  it,  when  other  people, 
strangers  to  the  peer  or  himself,  were  present.  And  yet 
Burpham,  like  most  men  of  controlling  preoccupations, 
was  readily  dissociated  from  his  class. 

After  the  flaxen  caricaturist  came  Manon  Gauffroux, 
with  her  fame,  her  beauty,  her  popularity  as  a  daughter 
of  allied  France,  palpably  attendant  upon  her.  She 
seemed  to  coquet  with  all  three  at  once,  as  well  as  with 
the  collective  admiration  that  rose  to  her.  Her  appear- 
ance gave  immediate  assurance  of  her  talent,  assurance 
of  the  complete  quality  of  its  brilliant  and  facile  touch. 
"Touch"  was  the  word  for  her:  as  she  sang  her  old 
French  chansons,  her  old  English  ballads, — these  latter 
with  an  enchanting  French  accent,  both  timid  and  brave, 
faltering  most  winningly  to  the  "Bravos"  of  her  hear- 
ers' minds, — she  "touched"  at  one  emotional  surface 
after  another,  she  fluttered  on  the  windowsills  of  all  the 
passions.  She  was  everything  that  was  pretty  and 
piquant  and  quaint:  the  first  impressions,  from  a  dis- 
tance, of  beauty  and  love  and  jealousy  and  tragedy,  she 
gave  them  all;  then,  with  a  toss  of  her  admirable  little 
golden  head,  with  a  light  turn  of  her  bewitching  figure, 
with  a  moue  of  every  conceivable  enticement  in  caprice, 
she  conjured  desolation  and  broken  hearts,  angers  and 
lusts  and  hates,  each  one,  into  prettiness  and  piquancy 
and  quaintness,  where,  by  the  magic  of  her  tiny  wand, 
they  stayed  locked  up.  And  all  without  real  fantasy, 
without  real  imagination,  without  genius :  her  talent,  un- 


78  A  CHASTE  MAN 

challengeable  for  what  it  was,  exactly  suited  her  huge 
audience,  placed  them  on  equal  terms  with  her  in  spirit, 
gave  them  what  was  theirs,  what  was  easy  and  charm- 
ing to  take, — flattered  and  satisfied  them,  too,  by  the  fact 
of  its  being  given  thus,  with  this  elegance  more  delectable 
than  any  they  could  have  dreamed.  Manon  Gauffroux 
was  perfectly  and  happily  mistress  of  her  own  ruled-off 
marginal  field,  a  field  not  ruled  off  from  them,  but  for 
them.     The  house  was  in  a  frenzy  for  her. 

"She's  extraordinarily  good,"  said  Lawrance,  when 
at  last  the  hubbub  subsided,  some  five  minutes  after  the 
"call"  which  the  singer  decreed  as  final. 

"Yes."  Olga  was  thoughtful,  and  her  flush  had  a  lit- 
tle faded.     "Yes,  but  it's  all — playing  at  it,  isn't  it?" 

"Olga!    I  saw  your  eyes — " 

*  *  I  know. ' '  She  turned  and  looked  at  him ;  she  looked 
affectionately.  ' '  But  playing  at  things  makes  your  eyes 
get  wet — often." 

Lawrance  was  not  himself  too  young  to  recognize  in 
Olga  something  of  the  pedantry  of  youth,  something  of 
that  stiff-mindedness  that  is  evidence  of  youth  and  chas- 
tity. But  this  only  made  her  youth  more  sure  for  him : 
and  dimly,  sweetly,  hurtingly,  he  took  account  of  the 
future  wearing  down,  on  the  wakening  of  passion,  of 
the  edges  of  her  sharp  impressions,  the  edges  of  her  al- 
most acrid  desire  for  truth,  of  her  sense  of  truth's  im- 
portance. 

The  Spanish  dancers  came,  with  their  southern  rap- 
port of  amorous  sentiment  with  amorous  sense,  their  keen- 
handed  swift  violence,  their  proud  ferocity,  and  their 
"frankness"  that  really  is  not  frankness  as  the  north- 
em  mind  understands  the  word,  because  of  the  absence 
for  balance  of  any  implied  conception  of  northern  "reti- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  79 

cence."  They  circled,  hovered,  leapt,  clashed,  entwined, 
sang,  cried  out  for  one  another,  closed  in  on  one  another, 
in  complete  indifference  to  their  audience, — an  indiffer- 
ence that  struck  down  to  fibres  of  deep  root,  that  was 
involved  with  absorption  in  essential  hungers  and  essen- 
tial strifes.  Lawrance  felt  excited  and  afraid;  he  took 
Olga's  hand;  he  was  threatened.  Her  flush  returned; 
she  was  troubled  and  stirred, — ^but  why,  how,  he  could 
not  tell.  She  leaned  forward,  she  frowned;  once  she 
smiled  curiously.  Her  eyes  brightened  as  they  had  never 
brightened  for  Manon  Gauffroux;  her  face  grew  sud- 
denly childlike.  .  .  .  Later  its  expression  changed  again : 
she  looked  remote  and  yet  involved,  chaste  but  not  inno- 
cent. Lawrance  could  not  help  breathing  heavily.  She 
pressed  his  hand :  he  glanced  again  at  her,  and  saw  that 
now,  as  at  first,  she  was  puzzled,  but  puzzled  as  though 
she  liked  it.  He  was  baffled :  he  could  not  tell  at  all  what 
was  happening,  or  what  might  happen :  every  implication 
evaded  him. 

The  audience  had  settled  down  to  appreciation  of  the 
Spanish  dancing  as  of  a  "turn"  that  was  **a  bit  thick 
in  parts,  you  know," — still,  one  could  keep  an  attitude 
of  moral  neutrality  because  the  people  were  foreigners, 
and  of  course  it  was  their  way:  silly  to  be  prudish. 
Rather  naughty,  but  licensed,  and  you  might  as  well  en- 
joy it.  There  was  a  display  of  tempered  enthusiasm: 
Lord  Burpham,  like  most  of  the  others,  clapped  gently 
and  not  for  too  long,  so  as  not  to  commit  himself.  The 
"Trafalgar"  was  a  high-class  "Hall." 

"Well,"  Lawrance  asked,  "and  how  did  you  like 
that?" 

She  gave  him  a  grave  look.  "It  wasn't  so  easy,"  she 
said. 


80  A  CHASTE  MAN 

**Not  so  easy!  Why,  every  one  thinks  Manon  is  so 
subtle  and  delicate  and  all  that,  and  these  Spanish  peo- 
ple,— well,  they  say  they  're — you  know  the  kind  of  thing 
they  say, — 'primitive  force' — 'resolving  the  passions  to 
their  first  elements' — and  all  that.  'Simplicity  and 
sheer  directness  of  animal  vitality.'  I  was  reading  a 
notice  only  yesterday — " 

"I  didn't  know  what  they  meant — ^what  they  really 
meant — all  the  same.  But  it  was  something  important. 
I'm  very  glad  indeed  we  saw  them.  I  shall  think  about 
them.     They  weren  't  playing  at  anything. ' ' 

Lawrance's  emotions  kept  beating  him.  She  was  still 
grave,  and  still  flushed,  when  they  left  the  theatre. 


o 


CHAPTER  IX 

* '  ^""^^  H,  a  four-wheeler !  But  won't  you  be  awfully 
late  getting  back  after  coming  home  with 
me?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  No — really.  Let's  take  this. 
You  see,  the  Tube  will  be  crowded,  and  all  the  taxis  have 
been  snapped  up. ' '    Lawrance  spoke  rapidly. 

When  they  were  inside  the  cab,  she  touched  his  knee. 
**It's  exciting,  all  this,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  and  laughed. 

*  *  Oh,  Olga ! ' '  He  gave  her  a  long  look,  a  look  that  he 
meant  to  be  tender  and  understanding,  but  which  was,  in 
fact,  desirous,  apprehensive. 

"Just  think!  London — real  London — isn't  it  differ- 
ent from  our  part?"  She  was  leaning  forward,  away 
from  him;  she  gazed  at  the  streets  with  their  dimmed 
shine;  she  took  in  the  blurred  and  various  lines  of  the 
buildings.  "Just  think!  All  these  shops  and  theatres 
and  hotels !  I  love  London.  And  that  man  would  like 
to  have  everything  altered!" 

"Well,  not  exactly.  He'd  leave  the  old  buildings  as 
they  are ;  what  he  'd  alter  would  be  the  new  ones. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  nearly  all  these  are  new,  and  they're  all 
lovely.  Isn't  London  much  better  now  they've  dark- 
ened the  streets  ? —  I  like  some  quite  little  things  about 
London,  I  like  them  awfully.  The  way  they  put  the 
*A'  in  the  sign  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre, — and  the  'H.' 
We're  just  there,  but  you  can't  see  it  now.  Would  he 
think  that  was  wrong?" 

81 


82  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I'm  sure  Lord  Burpham  would  say  that  was  unneces- 
sary and  teasing  ornamentation." 

"Well,  I  like  it!  Oh,  wasn't  it  funny  Mr.  Deavitt 
being  his  cousin?  Mr.  Deavitt  didn't  build  that  new 
Wing  he  wanted  us  to  see,  did  he  ? " 

"No."  Lawrance  avoided  looking  at  her  now;  he  was 
determined  not  to  be  false  to  the  unfleshly  ideal  of  his 
affection, — determined,  and  horribly  nervous  under  the 
determination.  ' '  No,  I  'm  sure  he  didn  't.  I  never  heard 
Lord  Burpham  speak  of  Mr.  Deavitt  before.  You 
know,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  for  if  only  they  could  talk 
on  unimportant  subjects  all  the  time,  and  he  could  keep 
his  mind  fixed,  then  he  would  be  safe,  "you  know  that 
new  Wing  at  Lipscot  isn't  half  bad,  really.  It  would 
have  been  a  sight,  right  enough,  if  Burpham  had  had  his 
way,  but  the  man  who  did  it — what's  his  name?  I 
know  it  quite  well, — he,  well,  he  really  fooled  Burpham, 
you  know,  so  he  ended  by  making  the  thing  presentable. ' ' 
Lawrance,  not  being  ready  of  speech,  found  this  talking 
for  safety  a  great  effort.  "There's  something  in  Lord 
Burpham 's  ideas,  but  he's  got  no  notion  of  practical 
application,  no  notion  at  all.  I  wonder  why  he's  taken 
up  Deavitt  as  an  authority  now ;  I  suppose  he  quarrelled 
with  the  other  man — " 

"Is  Lord  Burpham 's  house  old?" 

"Oh,  yes,  pretty  old.  Lipscot  House  is  Elizabethan, 
I  think, — or  it  may  be  earlier.  I  don't  quite  know. 
You  see  I  don't  understand  anything  about  architecture, 
really;  I  don't  do  anything  but  the  Occult  business — " 

"Well,  I  should  think  that  new  Wing  must  look  funny, 
even  if—  I  don 't— ' '  She  stopped  abruptly.  "  Oh ! " 
She  leaned  back.  "I'm  tired."  Her  low-pitched  voice 
quivered  a  little.    She  took  his  hand.    "Do  you  ever  get 


A  CHASTE  MAN  83 

tired  ? ' '  She  looked  at  his  strained  face,  with  its  suffer- 
ing dark  eyes.  ''Do  you  ever  get  tired  like  that — ^sud- 
denly? Oh,  Uncle  Lorrie, — no,  'Lorrie/  I  will  say 
'Lorrie,'  I  remember, — I  loved  it  to-night,  but  I  am 
tired.    You  are,  too.    Don't  let's  talk  any  more." 

She  leaned  back  farther;  she  was  aslant  against  him, 
her  head  rested  below  his  shoulder,  her  slight  arm  lay 
along.  She  was  utterly  relaxed :  he  felt  her  unknowing 
warmth,  felt  it  about  and  through  him,  overpowering, 
with  no  intent.  For  more  than  ten  minutes  they  neither 
of  them  moved.  He  could  only  repeat  to  himself,  over 
and  over:  "This  is  awful;  this  is  awful!"  When  she 
did  move,  she  settled  herself  rather  more  closely  to  him, 
giving  him  sharp  torture.  * '  I  don 't  want  it ! "  he  cried 
inwardly,  as  though  calling  God  to  witness.  "I  don't 
want  it!" 

The  streets  grew  darker  and  darker.  They  were  out 
past  Euston  now.  Lawrance  felt  that  he  might  be  saved 
by  doing  something  wild,  by  calling  to  the  driver  and 
telling  him  to  turn  back  to  Euston  Station,  then  taking 
her  away  with  him  by  some  night-express  North.  If 
only  he  had  to  get  tickets  and  find  a  compartment !  Any- 
thing of  that  kind !  But  this  was  unbearable, — he  would 
go  mad.  He  did  not  reason  at  all;  he  never  once 
thought:  "What  if  I  do  embrace  her?"  or:  "What  if 
I  do  not?"  thus  setting  trains  of  possible  effects  in  vi- 
sionary motion.  His  sole  engrossment  was  with  resolve 
in  opposition  to  desire.  The  fantastic  idea  of  the  mid- 
night express  flashed  on  him  from  outside:  he  could  not 
cope  with  it,  nor  with  anything  else  but  his  desire:  it 
paled,  that  idea,  and  vanished,  leaving  him  struggling 
without  help. 

She  stirred,  and  he  felt  her  hair  against  his  chin.    Why 


84  A  CHASTE  MAN 

had  he  taken  that  four-wheeler  ?  Those  very  qualities  in 
her  that  he  had  believed  must  keep  him  back  and  set 
him  right, — her  vague  and  troubled  delicacy,  her  tremu- 
lousness  still  remote,  her  fugitive  half -sense  of  the  bloom 
that  was  there  for  her,  but  not  yet, — all  this  racked  him, 
tore  his  soul  with  a  cruel  temptation  of  cruelty  in  pas- 
sion. It  was  just  because  it  would  be  specially  wrong 
and  out  of  time —  He  dared  not  look  at  nor  think  of 
her  unripened  figure,  her  figure  so  exquisitely  in  the  way 
to  be  ready;  he  tried  to  think  that  she  was  made  like 
Doris.  He  imagined  Doris,  grossly  burlesqued,  by  his 
side. 

''Hold  me,"  she  said  sleepily.  "I  should  like  that — 
Well,  don't  you  want  to?  I  suppose  I  should  make  you 
uncomfortable. ' ' 

"If  I  do — "  He  stopped,  and  found  himself  reflect- 
ing upon  his  absurdly  theatrical  intonation  of  the  words. 
"If  I  do," — he  tried  to  take  a  lighter  pitch, — "well,  I 
shall  kiss  you;  I  shall  hug  you;  that's  all.  I  tell  you — 
I—" 

* '  Well,  why—  ?  It  wouldn  't  matter,  would  it  ?  Don 't 
you  always  kiss  me  ? " 

She  sat  straight  up ;  he  caught  the  gleam  of  her  eyes, 
but  could  not  see  her  expression. 

'  *  I  don 't  know, ' '  he  said.  * '  I  should  be  sorry,  you  see ; 
I  should  be  sorry  if — oh,  Olga!" 

He  lifted  her  to  him,  took  her  full  in  his  arms,  kiss- 
ing her  savagely  about  the  mouth  and  neck,  trembling 
to  the  sense  of  her  unaccustomed  flesh.  Her  lips  were 
open:  he  held  her  so  closely,  his  kisses  were  so  violent, 
that  he  did  not  know  if  she  trembled  or  responded.  An 
immense  wave  of  physical  relief  overcame  him,  washing 
out  everything.    At  last  he  relaxed  his  clasp  of  her  a 


^  CHASTE  MAN  85 

little,  but  he  kissed  her  still ;  he  kissed  her  arms,  he  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it.  He  was  faint  with  her,  she  was 
so  strange  and  unused.     There  was  no  remorse. 

^'You're  my  girl,  mine!"  he  whispered.  "I  can't 
love  you  more — ^I  can't!" 

*'I'd  like  to  sit  quietly  now." 

She  lay  against  him  in  silence,  and  he  heard  her  heart. 
He  kept  his  arms  about  her  waist,  her  waist  that  was 
too  girlish  to  be  boyish,  too  boyish  to  be  girlish.  He 
caught  gently  at  her  now  and  again,  he  kissed  her  more 
tenderly,  but  with  passion  still.  His  ecstasy  lingered, 
in  sweeter  stress. 

''That's  what  people  do  when  they're  in  love,  isn't 
it  ? "  she  said  at  last. 

"Ah,  then,  you  don't  love  me !" 

*'I  don't  know.  There  must  be  something  more — it 
wasn't  the  end." 

"No — ^in  a  way;  but  that  isn't  the  most  important." 
Lawrance  misunderstood  her:  he  thought  she  spoke  out 
of  instinct  and  innocence. 

"I  mean  that  I  must  have  more  to  feel.  I  mean  that 
it  wasn't  important  enough.  Now  if  it  had  made  me 
different  all  through — !" 

"Oh,  Olga,  I  do  love  you!"  He  was  appealing,  al- 
most plaintive.  "I  couldn't  love  you  more  than  this — 
I  do  love  you ! ' ' 

"Do  you?  I  like  that — if  you  do  really — but  it's  not 
— oh,  I  don't  know!    Perhaps — " 

"Kiss  me." 

"I'd  rather  you  kissed  me.  Isn't  it  funny,  how  you 
think  about  things,  and  then  they're  different?  I'm  not 
sorry,  but  it's  difficult.  Look,  there's  Camden  Town 
Tube.    "We're  nearly  there.    I'm  not  unhappy  at  all,  or 


86  A  CHASTE  MAN 

cross.  I  wonder  why  Doris  is.  Perhaps  she  can  be 
really  in  love,  after  all,  and  that's  why — but  I  don't 
think  so. ' ' 

"Olga!  If  you  didn't  want  me  to  let  you  go,  you 
must  love  me — a  little." 

"I  hope  I  don't." 

' '  Why  1    What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Why,  don't  you  see? — of  course — ^because  there 'd  be 
nothing  for  afterwards — ^nothing  new. ' ' 

"Shall  I  have  anything  to  do  with  that?"  He  was 
resentful. 

"I  don't  know  at  all."    She  was  unusually  decisive. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  anyhow?"  he  said  weakly. 

"Of  course  not.  I  like  you  just  the  same  as  I  did  be- 
fore. You  didn't  seem  to  be  there — that  was  what  it  was 
like — as  if  you  weren  't  in  it. ' '  He  winced,  and  wanted 
to  feel  that  she  was  brutal,  but  couldn't.  Then  his  ac- 
quired sentiment  blamed  her  for  immodesty,  but  uncon- 
vincingly.  "I  began  it.  I  wanted  to,  partly  because 
of  those  Spanish  dancers —  Father  talks  about  Cath- 
olics of  Spain.  I  think  those  dancers  would  be  good 
Catholics,  and  Manon  Gauffroux  wouldn't.  You  see," 
she  went  on  very  slowly,  "I  thought  I  could  do  that — 
like  people  do  when  they're  in  love — just  trying  it — as 
a  sort  of  help — ^because  I  've  known  you  so  long,  and  you 
understood — and  you  weren't  like  the  others — and  to- 
day you'd  been  different  to  what  you  were  before." 

"But  you  weren't  cold,  Olga;  you  weren't  cold!" 

"I  didn't  feel  cold." 

He  wondered  if  she  had  taken  him  in  a  purely  literal 
sense.    "You  were  loving  to  me!"  he  protested,  not 
being  at  all  sure  that  she  was. 
"In  a  way,  yes;  I — " 


A  CHASTE  MAN  87 

"Not  in  the  right  way?" 

"There'll  be  another  way  later  on,  I'm  sure." 

"Well,  was  it  a — a  help?"  He  sought  relief  in  an 
ironical  tone. 

"Yes.  I  know  I've — I  know  I've  something  to  love- 
with." 

"You  are  extraordinary.  I  can't  understand  you, 
Olga." 

* '  Well,  you  were  happy. ' ' 

"  I  'm  not  happy  now. ' ' 

*  *  I  want  you  to  be.  Would  you  be  happy  if  you  took 
me  and  kissed  me  like  that  again,  another  time  ? ' ' 

* '  I  think  we  'd  better  wait. ' '    He  was  on  his  dignity. 

"It's  only  playing  at  it,  isn't  it?  But  you  can,  when- 
ever you  like." 

* '  Olga !    Don 't  let  any  one  else ! ' ' 

"All  right.    Here's  our  house." 

"Promise  me!" 

"Yes,  I  promise.     I  don't  want  to  let  any  one  else." 

"Ah,  not  yet!"  he  bitterly  reflected,  as  they  got  out: 
then,  his  emotions  switching:  "I've  done  wrong!  It's 
awful!" 

"Well  you  two!"  Doris's  voice  greeted  them  jocu- 
larly as  they  entered  the  house.  They  went  through  the 
half-open  door  of  the  dining-room  and  saw  her  lying 
half -asleep  in  a  large  chair  by  the  fire.  "Have  a  good 
time?"  She  got  up  and  felt  her  hair  and  patted  her 
blouse  before  lighting  the  gas.  "What's  the  show  like 
at  the  'Traf.'?" 

Lawrance  noticed  that  Olga's  natural  pallor  had  re- 
turned. 

"We  went  to  the  Camden  'Palace,'  "  Doris  went  on. 
"What  did  you  think  of  Manon? —    Oh,  you  are  all 


88  A  CHASTE  MAN 

rumpled  up !"    She  looked  with  veiled  jealousy  at  Olga. 
"I  expect  you're  tired,"  she  added  meaningly. 
"Yes,  awfully." 

"Well,  goodnight,  Doris!  Goodnight,  Olga!" 
He  touched  her  cheek  with  his  lips,  left  them,  and 
walked  rapidly,  thinking  and  wondering,  being  angry 
and  being  amorous,  to  the  Camden  Town  Tube.  He 
could  not  help  feeling  that  in  some  way  or  other  Muriel 
had  scored. 


CHAPTER  X 

DURING  the  next  few  days  Muriel,  to  her  hus- 
band's surprise,  was  affectionate,  maternal  and 
gay.  She  did  not  once  refer  to  his  visit  to  the 
Flynns;  indeed  she  did  not  refer  to  the  Flynns  at  all. 
She  treated  Lawrance  with  a  specialized  tact,  as  a  skilled 
nurse  treats  an  invalid.  He  guessed  that  she  was  act- 
ing on  a  set  purpose,  and  he  was  puzzled  that  she  should 
show  this  kind  of  cleverness:  he  did  not  realize  that 
nearly  all  women  are  clever  under  certain  impulses.  He 
had  never  had  any  but  the  scantest  glimpses  of  generali- 
ties about  women  or  about  life:  he  rarely,  even  in  the 
humblest  way,  philosophized.  Nor  was  he  at  all  a  close 
observer,  but  Muriel's  change  of  conduct  was  so  definite 
that  he  could  not  have  helped  noticing  it.  He  did  not 
like  it  at  first;  it  made  him  uneasy,  but  he  had  some 
consolation  in  reflecting  that  Muriel  was  only  making  it 
difficult  for  him  to  do  what  he  did  not  mean  to  do  any- 
how just  yet,  that  was  to  go  and  see  the  Flynns.  He 
soon  found  himself,  on  the  whole,  much  less  irritable, 
much  less  bitter,  much  less  vindictive.  He  was,  without 
knowing  it,  exactly  in  the  mood  to  be  smoothed,  in  the 
mood  to  have  his  pillows  patted,  his  hair  stroked,  and 
his  bedclothes  tucked  in  for  him.  The  sincerity  of  Olga 
had  given  his  pride  a  really  severe  shock.  Nothing  could 
have  had  so  surely  the  effect  of  a  rebuff. 

Married  people  are  especially  soothed,  just  as  they  are 
especially   exasperated,   by  the   various   habitual   inci- 

89 


90  A  CHASTE  MAN 

dentals  of  their  state.  Hence  the  extraordinary  power, 
for  comfort  or  for  worry,  of  wife  over  husband,  of  hus- 
band over  wife.  They  both  know :  it  is  open  to  them  both 
to  suppress  or  to  evoke:  and  so,  easily,  without  overt 
sign,  Muriel  suppressed  during  these  particular  days 
nearly  all  the  little  incidental  things  that  made  for  the 
disturbance  of  her  husband's  daily  course,  she  evoked 
nearly  all  that  were  calming  and  harmonious.  She 
tightened  the  bonds  that  drew  the  habit  of  her  grate- 
fully to  him,  she  relaxed  those  that  drew  it  vexingly. 
She  played  the  good  wife,  she  was  always  on  the  look 
out.  "You  don't  understand  her,"  he  found  himself 
thinking.     "She's  a  woman  of  fibre,  of  self-control." 

He  was,  at  the  least,  not  sorry  to  be  in  the  same  house 
with  her :  at  the  most,  he  had  a  sense  of  domestic  security 
and  kind  domestic  vigilance  that  pleased  him  well.  ' '  Do- 
mestic" he  was,  at  bottom:  "Bohemia"  was  hardly  a 
region  for  his  holiday  trips,  certainly  not  for  his  resi- 
dence. His  attraction  to  the  Flynns  was  for  themselves, 
not  for  their  setting,  not  for  their  way  of  life:  it  was 
fed  by  his  profound  loyalty  to  friendships  of  early  youth, 
by  his  dependence  upon  associations  to  which  he  was  well 
used.  Lawrance's  revulsions  against  the  day-after-day 
intimacies  of  marriage  struck  down  to  no  roots  of  revo- 
lutionary theory  native  to  his  spirit :  they  were  the  kind 
of  revulsions  known  from  time  to  time  by  most  quite 
usual  married  men,  who  come  to  put  up  with  them  as  they 
put  up  with  colds  in  the  head,  as  normally  intermittent ; 
colds,  in  a  temperate  climate:  these  revulsions,  in  wed- 
lock. And  particularly  severe  revulsions,  like  particu- 
larly severe  colds,  result  in  fever.  Muriel  was  applying 
what  was — not  pressing  the  metaphor  too  far — a  homoeo- 
pathic cure. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  91 

She  did  not  want  to  lose  him,  and  she  felt  rather  than 
planned  her  way  to  hold  him.  Her  task,  with  men  of 
certain  other  temperaments,  would  have  been  far  more 
difficult,  for  though  Lawrance  's  passions  were  violent  and 
easily  stirred,  they  were  easily  diverted:  if  diverted  be- 
fore his  obstinacy  hardened.  Again,  he  was  subject  to 
the  flattery  and  the  convenience  of  personal  attention, 
subject  also  to  the  influence  of  the  recall  of  memories 
that  their  earlier  married  life  had  given.  That  **Do 
you  remember  .  .  .  ?"  touched  and  pleased  him.  On 
one  occasion  she  led  him  to  remember,  stirringly  and 
significantly,  a  certain  rare  drawing  of  her  to  him  in 
their  early  married  days.  ' '  How  strong  you  are ! ' '  Her 
words  came  back,  none  the  less  vibrant  because  he  was 
not  really  strong,  and  never  had  been. 

Muriel  was  helped,  too,  by  there  never  having  been 
between  them  wounds  that  went  really  deep:  and,  most 
importantly,  her  temperamental  coldness  did  not  of  ne- 
cessity debar  a  simulation  with  which  his  blood  co-oper- 
ated, hardly  at  all  debarred  it  now  that  she  was  set  on 
"being  nice  to  him."  Here  she  was  helped  tremen- 
dously by  his  experience  with  Olga :  he  took,  in  a  sense, 
revenge  upon  the  girl. 

It  was  not  for  one  reason  only  that  he  had  resolved 
not  to  go  to  the  Flynns'  soon  again.  The  meeting  with 
Lord  Burpham  troubled  Lawrance  much,  troubled  him 
more  and  more.  The  humiliation  of  his  lie  about  Olga 
being  his  sister  gathered  weight,  and  he  had  no  humour 
to  bring  relief.  He  was  weighted  too  by  the  increasingly 
afflicting  consciousness  of  what  the  verdict  of  men  of 
Lord  Burpham 's  code  would  be  upon  his  conduct.  Mor- 
ality came  home  to  him  in  this  very  usual  way :  he  could 
hear  others  talking;  he  knew  that  to  them  he  would  be 


92  A  CHASTE  MAN 

a  "rotter"  for  what  he  had  done.  Not  that  "they" 
were  not  lenient  within  prescribed  limits,  much  more 
lenient,  of  course,  than  the  abstract  code :  but  these  lim- 
its, he  knew  perfectly  well,  would  not  include  behaviour 
like  his.  He  would  be  allowed  to  have  "affairs,"  under 
regulation  of  good  form,  but:  "A  married  man's  no 
business  to  go  taking  a  girl  barely  sixteen  to  the  *  Trafal- 
gar' and  messing  about  with  her  in  a  cab  on  the  way 
back."  It  didn't  "do";  it  wasn't  the  thing,  and  it  was 
damn  bad  luck  on  his  wife. 

He  knew  exactly  why  he  had  lied  to  Lord  Burpham; 
knew  exactly  what  Lord  Burpham 's  defined  coldness  to 
him  would  be  like,  if  he  found  out.  And  Lord  Burpham 
would  be  articulating  the  attitude  of  thousands ;  he  would 
be  representing  something  that  was  tremendously  and 
formidably  backed,  something  old  and  strong,  something 
that  must  be  justified  in  being  there.  Lawrance  had  not 
a  grain  of  the  gay  defiance  that  could  ignore  it,  and  en- 
joy ignoring  it  all  the  more  because  it  was  so  portentous 
and  so  fixed.  He  might  clench  his  hand,  but  he  could 
never  snap  his  fingers,  with :  * '  Oh,  don 't  you  like  it,  my 
dear  ones!  What  funny  little  men  you  are!"  They 
were  not  funny  at  all  to  him,  and  they  loomed.  "It's 
awful!"  he  would  repeat.  He  was  not  able  for  the 
reflection  that  our  way  of  treating  sex  is  quite  as  much 
of  a  Phallic  ritual  as  any,  and  hardly  more  unsuccessful 
than  most.  He  had  no  fears  whatever  on  the  economic 
score :  his  fifteen  hundred  pounds  invested  with  Ralston 
and  Inge  kept  him  securely  with  them.  Besides,  he  knew 
he  had  value :  he  was  indeed  excellent  in  his  work,  reli- 
able ;  never  brilliant,  but  with  serviceable  powers  of  con- 
centration, a  good  head,  and  a  journalistic  sense.  With- 
out him,  old  Inge  would  be  sure  to  run  amuck,  and  he 


A  CHASTE  MAN  93 

would  be  difficult  to  replace,  especially  with  so  many  men 
gone  or  going  to  the  war.  No,  it  was  the  idea  of  the  dis- 
favour of  this  consolidated  opinion  that  hurt  him ;  even 
though  he  were  never  to  come  into  actual  contact  with  it, 
that  would  not  matter.  It  would  still  be  overpoweringly 
there.  He  used  to  look  at  Muriel,  thinking:  "And  she 
has  all  that  behind  her ! "  He  felt  that  instinctively  she 
knew  it,  knew  that  she  was  in  this  way  "tremendously 
backed. ' '  All  her  kindness,  all  her  care  and  thought  for 
him,  seemed  to  emphasize  the  legality,  the  acceptedness, 
of  their  relations.  He  was  too  much  in  the  wash  of  reac- 
tion to  resent  this,  to  dislike  her  because  of  it :  it  seemed, 
indeed,  rather  to  support  him;  to  be  bringing  "opinion" 
round  to  his  side,  as  he  had  vainly  tried  to  do  by  telling 
himself  that  he  had  known  Olga  since  she  was  little,  that 
he  was  an  old  friend  of  the  family, — a  humorous  touch, 
this,  to  another, — that  there  had  been  no  "impropriety." 
These  excuses  did  not  in  the  least  affect  that  sure  and  dis- 
passionate condemnation  from  outside:  Lawrance  was 
neither  clever  nor  dishonest  enough  for  them  to  do  that. 

Lord  l^urpham  was  "round  at  the  Office"  a  few  days 
after  the  "Trafalgar"  evening.  He  asked  Lawrance: 
"How  about  Monday  of  next  week?"  "Charming  girl, 
your  sister,  Mr.  Lawrance,"  he  said.  "Charming  girl." 
The  young  man  told  him  that  she  was  not  very  well.  So 
the  matter  dropped,  with  the  usual  expressions. 

Lawrance,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  was  the  more  im- 
pressed by  and  unhappy  for  the  news  that  his  real  sister 
Letty  was  as  a  fact  "not  very  well."  These  were  the 
words  used  by  Lawrance 's  mother  at  the  beginning  of 
her  letter,  but  what  followed  was  more  alarming,  al- 
though his  mother's  tone,  throughout,  was  one  of  gossip 
at  ease  about  her  daughter.    Lawrance  gathered  that  the 


94  A  CHASTE  MAN 

girl — ^she  was  about  five  years  younger  than  he — ^was 
threatened  by  consumption.  A  sore  place  at  the  bottom 
of  one  of  her  lungs.  She  coughed  and  had  lost  weight. 
The  doctor  advised  complete  rest,  careful  diet,  and  the 
open  air.  He  did  not  think  it  imperative  that  she  should 
leave  Malstowe,  where  they  lived:  there  were  better 
places,  it  was  true,  but  there  was  no  danger  in  remaining, 
if  Letty  were  careful  about  rest  and  fresh  air.  Mrs. 
Lawrance  would  have  liked,  she  wrote,  to  have  taken  the 
dear  girl  to  one  of  those  * '  better  places, ' '  but  Oliver  knew 
her  difficulties;  her  heart  trouble  prevented  her  from 
travelling,  besides,  getting  abroad  seemed  almost  impos- 
sible, with  the  war;  it  would  be  dreadful  if  there  were 
two  invalids,  and  dear  Letty  did  not  at  all  want  to  leave 
her  and  go  with  any  one  else.  So  they  must  hope  it 
would  be  all  right  at  Malstowe,  where  after  all  they  did 
have  a  fine  sea  air.  But  what  did  Oliver  think?  She 
wanted — ^they  both  wanted — his  advice,  very  much.  If 
he  could  possibly  come  down  for  a  day  or  two — 

Lawrance,  upset  and  sad,  handed  the  letter  to  his  wife. 
"Poor  little  girl!"  she  exclaimed.  She  was  tender  and 
grave,  she  was  sympathetic  in  just  the  right  way.  Law- 
rance was  touched,  and  in  a  sense  flattered,  because 
Letty,  for  whom  Muriel  was  preoccupied,  was  his  sister. 

* '  Of  course  I  shall  go, ' '  he  said. 

Muriel  asked,  very  sweetly  and  seriously,  if  she  might 
come  too. 

* '  Of  course, '  *  he  told  her.  * '  Of  course,  darling.  That 
is  what  I  should  like.    We'll  take  a  week." 

* '  It  won 't  be  a  bother  for  your  mother,  having  us  both  ? 
She  didn't  say—" 

"Oh,  that  was  only  because  she  thought  I  shouldn't  be 


A  CHASTE  MAN  95 

able  to  get  off  for  more  than  a  day  or  two.     But  things 
are  slack  now.     A  week  will  be  all  right. ' ' 

"Poor  Letty !     I  am  sorry,  Doll — I  do  hope — " 
No  one  could  have  shown  more  considerate  feeling  for  a 
sister-in-law.     Muriel  made  the  most   of  the  immense 
advantage  that  women  have  in  situations  of  the  kind. 

Lawrance  telegraphed.  An  hour  or  so  later  he  winced 
a  little  when  Mr.  Ralston,  who  had  overheard  him  and 
Lord  Burpham,  said:    **Your  sister  is  worse  f* 


CHAPTER  XI 

LAWRANCE  and  his  wife,  on  their  arrival  at 
about  five  o'clock,  were  greeted  by  Letty  in  her 
hat  and  coat.  She  ran  out  into  the  hall  from 
the  drawingroom.  ' '  You  dear  things !  I  am  glad  we  got 
back  in  time!"  She  kissed  them.  **I'll  come  up  with 
you." 

Lawrance's  glance  into  the  drawingroom  revealed  two 
young  men,  one  of  whom  he  knew  pretty  well,  the  other  a 
stranger;  a  young  girl,  familiar  as  a  friend  of  his  sister's, 
and  his  mother.  Mrs.  Lawrance's  plentiful  person  was 
fully  occupying  a  deep  wicker  chair;  she  made  it  look 
flimsy.  In  her  important  brown  and  yellow  flowered 
silk  she  was  like  an  expensive  bouquet  in  its  paper 
wrapper,  she  was  a  floral  decoration  too  abundant  for 
the  scene.  She  was  prodigious,  not  at  all  superb.  They 
were  all  having  tea,  talking,  being  amused.  Lawrance 
resented  strongly  the  pleasant  and  casual  air  of  this  little 
tea-party.  Nothing  in  the  least  as  he  had  expected. 
Hang  it,  he'd  come  to  see  his  family  .  .  .  serious  mat- 
ter ..  .  surely  they  might  have  .  .  .  this  kind  of  in- 
trusion. .  .  . 

"There!  You  11  come  down  soon,  won't  you?  We'll 
have  some  tea  made  fresh.  Mother 's  longing  to  see  you. 
I  look  all  right,  don't  I ?  Nothing  really  the  matter,  it's 
not  worth  talking  about — only  a  stupid  little  sore  place 
somewhere  or  other.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  drinking  milk  and 
I  've  had  the  sashes  of  all  my  windows  taken  out.    Mother 

96 


A  CHASTE  MAN  97 

and  I  changed  rooms  because  she  has  such  a  lot  of  win- 
dows.    Come  along  soon!" 

Lawrance,  in  his  dressing-room,  washed  his  hands 
slowly.  He  didn't  know  who  to  be  angry  with:  he 
couldn't  be  angry  with  Letty,  she  was  so  pretty  and  she 
had  kissed  him  so  affectionately;  he  couldn't  be  angry 
with  his  mother,  his  floral  and  stationary  mother,  any 
more  than  he  could  be  angry  with  some  enormous  bloom. 
She  was  there;  she  had  to  be  there,  copiously,  just  like 
that,  and  nothing  but  her  appearance  could  be  expected 
of  her.  Lawrance  realized,  with  full  flush  of  feeling, 
how  very  fond  he  was  of  both  his  mother  and  Letty.  He 
remembered  Letty  as  a  little  girl.  By  Jove !  how  pretty 
she  was  then,  and  what  a  little  flirt !  She  had  never  had 
an  awkward  age.  Thirteen,  fourteen — ^fifteen,  he  had 
always  been  proud  of  her,  and  there  had  never  been  any 
trouble,  either :  she  had  never  gone  over  the  line,  or  near 
it, — not  really  near —  Prettier  than  ever,  she  seemed, 
now  she  was  ill.  Her  large  brown  kindling  eyes  seemed 
larger,  her  colour  more  daring  and  bright.  She  seemed 
to  give  a  keener  sense  of  herself.  That  brown  hair  of 
hers,  with  its  flashes  of  gold,  more  frequent  and  more 
alight  than  Olga's  russet  gleams;  her  large  but  clear- 
cut  and  wholesomely  amorous  mouth;  her  fervent 
sharply-striking  grace  of  figure.  ...  No  one  could  be 
prettier.     And  now  those  cursed  "T.  B."! 

Lawrance  noticed  a  photograph  of  Letty,  taken  when 
she  was  sixteen:  just  Olga's  age.  Olga?  Letty  would 
not  have  been  in  the  least  like  Olga;  she  would  never 
.  .  .  He  checked  himself :  he  had  no  business  to  be  think- 
ing of  Olga  now —  What  the  devil  was  that  young  Ted 
Phillips  doing  down  at  Malstowe?  Why  wasn't  he  in 
khaki ?    Of  course  he  was  after  Letty;  very  bad  for  her; 


98  A  CHASTE  MAN 

he  was  handsome,  too;  it  must  be  stopped.  Lawrance 
knew  now  who  to  be  angry  with;  he  would  be,  he  was, 
angry  with  Phillips.  A  strong,  healthy  young  fellow 
like  that;  a  bachelor  with  an  independent  income;  he 
was  the  very  sort  they  wanted  for  the  Army.  They 
ought  to  bring  in  Compulsory  Service !  Lawrance 's  pub- 
lic school  honour  checked  him  here:  he  felt  he  had  no 
right  to  wish  for  Compulsory  Service,  as  he  was  phys- 
ically unfit  himself.  Anyhow,  what  did  Phillips  mean 
by  it,  idling  down  at  a  seaside  place,  running  about  after 
a  girl  who  was  ill,  upsetting  her  ?  Lawrance  would  have 
a  long  talk  that  evening  with  his  mother.  .  .  . 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Doll?"  Muriel's  known  tap 
came  at  the  door  between  their  rooms. 

When  they  got  down,  the  three  intruders  had  disap- 
peared. Letty  was  at  the  tea-table,  and  Mrs.  Lawrance 
still  in  her  chair,  from  which  she  made  a  tentative  inade- 
quate effort  to  detach  herself,  as  her  son  and  daughter- 
in-law  came  in.  They  approached  her  hurriedly:  it 
seemed  so  very  wrong  that  she  should  get  up,  yet  almost 
indelicate  to  allude  to  that  operation  by  asking  her  not  to. 

"Well — Oliver  darling — darling  Muriel."  As  they 
bent  to  her,  she  emitted  her  salutations,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  emerge  by  a  difficult  yet  dignified  process  of 
filtration  through  unseen  pores.  "I  never  can  go  any- 
where, you  know."  This  was  the  refrain  of  her  life, 
as  familiar  as  her  vague  benevolent  smile,  her  heavy- 
lidded  grey  eyes  that  suggested  clouds  rather  than  light, 
and  her  pursed  irregular  mauve-tinted  lips.  "Yes,  do 
take  some  tea,  Oliver.  You  must  be  hungry — thirsty, 
I  mean, — after  your  journey."  She  stopped  again  for 
breath,  and  her  body  was  gently  stirred,  like  the  sail  of 
a  ship  in  quiet  weather.    Her  son  sat  by  her,  and  Muriel 


A  CHASTE  MAN  99 

went  over  to  Letty.  * '  Perhaps  you  are  hungry,  though. 
And  you,  dear  Muriel?  You  could  have  eggs.  Nellie 
would  boil  you  eggs.  You  don't  look  very  well,  Oliver 
darling.  You  must  have  been  working  too  hard.  Isn't 
it  wonderful,  Letty  dear,  the  way  he  works?  Won't  you 
really  have  eggs?  Yes,  they  are  high  just  now,  because 
of  the  war."  She  confirmed,  according  to  her  custom, 
an  imaginary  statement  of  some  one  else. 

"Is  that  man  Phillips  down  here  for  long?"  Law- 
rance  took  advantage  of  another  of  the  intermissions  to 
which  his  mother  was  physically  compelled. 

"Everything  seems  to  be  going  up,  even  the  doctors' 
bills."  Lawrance  stared  at  her,  amazed,  but  there  was 
nothing  that  seemed  heartless  about  her.  "I  can't  un- 
derstand at  all  about  Doctor  Peachey.  His  last  bill — 
so  very  large,  darling,  so  very  large."  She  dropped  her 
voice,  suspiring  confidentially.  "And  really  he  hasn't 
been  to  see  me  so  frequently  as  usual.  Absurdly  large. 
Yes,  I  feel  sure  that  sugar  wouldn't  do  me  any  harm, 
really.  That  saccharine  stuff  is  not  the  same,  you  are 
quite  right.  It's  like  condensed  milk — ^you  know  what 
I  mean — not  like  it,  of  course,  but  just  as  bad.  And  I 
do  get  so  tired  of — " 

She  went  intermittently  on;  while  Letty  talked  ex- 
citedly to  IMuriel  about  the  diversions  of  a  country  house 
where  she  had  been  staying  the  month  before. 

Lawrance  was  annoyed, — dully,  because  his  mother  al- 
ways had  a  quasi-hypnotic  effect  upon  him.  He  kept 
thinking :  ' '  She 's  exactly  the  same  as  she  was  before — 
extraordinary ;  it  makes  no  difference  whatever,  she  says 
all  the  same  things."  His  attention  drifted  to  the  en- 
thusiasms of  Letty;  he  heard  her  telling  Muriel  what  a 
lovely  time  she  had  had ;  what  a  lovely  time  they  had  all 


100  A  CHASTE  MAN 

had  together;  how  jolly  the  hunting  had  been,  and  the 
dancing,  and  the  bridge,  and  what  a  splendid  new  60 
h.p.  motor  Mr.  Markby-Levin  had  got.  Lawranee  cursed 
the  Markby-Levins — vulgar  new-rich  people  with  their 
interloping  possession  of  Captain  Walmer's  place !  Of 
course  they  had  kept  Letty  up  to  all  sorts  of  hours, 
driven  her  to  death  one  way  or  another  all  the  day! 
That  was  why  she  was  ill. 

"I  particularly  want  to  talk  to  you,  Mother,"  he  said. 
**Do  get  Letty  to  take  Muriel  out  into  the  garden." 

*  *  Of  course,  darling,  of  course.  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
too.  That  business  of  the  Beecher  estate,  dear,  it  is  so 
very  trying.  Mr.  Flick  was  here  for  an  hour  and  a  half 
yesterday  morning,  explaining  it.  I  did  wish  you  had 
been  there  to  help  me.  You  know  how  difficult  they 
make  these  things.  It  seems  we  have  to  give  some  kind 
of  a — what  is  it  that  they  call  it?  I  know  quite  well — 
oh,  yes,  a  'release,'  that's  what  it  is,  a  'release.'  "  She 
emphasized  the  word  with  the  peculiar  satisfaction  that 
she  always  had  in  legal  terms.  ' '  If  you  could  spare  the 
time,  Oliver  dear,  just  to  look  over  the  papers  that  Mr. 
Flick  left.  I  was  saying  to  him  how  lucky  it  was  that 
we  expected  you  down  to-morrow — that  is,  to-day.  He 
quite  agreed  with  me  that — " 

Lawranee  saw  that  Muriel  had  finished  her  tea. 
"Mother,"  he  interrupted,  "don't  you  think—?" 

"Of  course,"  she  continued;  "now  what  was  it  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  ?  Something  important,  I  know —  Oh, 
yes,  about  the  Beecher  estate.  You  know,  it  seems  so 
very  odd" — she  panted — "so  very  odd,  calling  it  an 
estate.  But  that's  the  way  the  lawyers  do.  Of  course 
dear  Uncle  Harry  had  no  land,  you  know — ^he  hadn't 
even  a  house — ^he  always  lived  in  hotels — such  a  strange 


A  CHASTE  MAN  101 

taste,  but  then  of  course  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  you  see — " 

"Come  along,  Magsie,  before  it  grows  dark.  I  want 
to  show  you  where  I'm  going  to  have  the  tennis  next 
summer. ' ' 

Lawrance  gave  the  women  a  relieved  smile  as  they 
went  out. 

"And  there's  that  other  matter,  too, — that  plot  of 
land  near  the  house.  It 's  so  nice  to  be  able  to  have  your 
advice,  darUng:  you  see,  dear  Letty,  of  course,  doesn't 
understand ;  how  can  you  expect  her  to  ? " 

"  It 's  about  Letty  I  want  to  talk.  Mother.  Surely  she 's 
more  important  than  anything  else  just  now?  What 
exactly  did  the  doctor  say  ? ' ' 

"Darling  Letty!  Yes,  I  quite  agree  with  you;  she 
must  take  care  of  herself,  and  do  just  what  the  doctor 
tells  her.  She's  very  sensible  about  it  all.  But  do  let 
me  tell  you  about  this  plot  of  land — it  will  all  go  out 
of  my  head.  You  see,  they're  certain  to  build  on  it 
sooner  or  later,  and  that  would  be  dreadful, — it  would 
quite  shut  us  up.  Mr.  Flick  thought  they  might  build 
an  hotel  of  several  stories!  Just  fancy!  That's  why 
Kawlings  is  holding  out  for  seven  hundred  pounds.  I 
think  that's  much  too  much.  Such  a  very  large  sum, 
considering  the  size  of  the  plot.  Now  Mr.  Flick  says — 
'Wait.'  *'  With  her  hands  folded  upon  her  profuse  lap, 
with  the  lavish  aspect  of  her  body  hallmarked  at  every 
point  as  static,  Mrs.  Lawrance  seemed  capable  of  follow- 
ing that  advice  forever.  "He  says  that  the  price  will 
go  down  in  a  few  months,  because  of  the  war.  He  says 
that  capital  is  getting  more  and  more — ^how  did  he  put 
it  in  his  letter?  'The  purchasing  power' — that  was  it — 
'the  purchasing  power  of  capital  is  rapidly  increasing.' 
It  sounded  so  convincing ;  it  was  the  way  he  put  it.    He 


102  A  CHASTE  MAN 

says  nobody  is  building  now.  Of  course,  Oliver,  as  you 
know,  I  have  every  confidence  in  Mr.  Flick,  but  then  the 
war  may  be  over,  mayn't  it?  I'm  sure  that's  what  we 
all  hope.  I  don't  quite  like  to  wait  for  the  price  to  be 
less;  that  would  be  almost  like  hoping  the  war  wouldn't 
be  over,  wouldn't  it?  That  wouldn't  be  at  all  nice.  I 
quite  see  what  you  mean,  dear,  that  wouldn't  be  nice  at 
all.  With  our  brave  soldiers  out  there  in  those  dread- 
ful trenches.  But  I  don't  want  to  give  seven  hundred. 
Five  is  quite  enough,  and  Mr.  Flick  says  I  may  get  it 
for  four — even  three,  if  I  wait.    Really,  I — " 

"I'm  sure  you  will  wait.  Mother.  And  don't  worry 
about  the  war.  Capital  will  be  just  as  valuable  when 
it's  over — for  a  time,  at  any  rate." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  She  brightened  almost  vio- 
lently, for  her;  she  even  swayed  a  little.  "Well,  that  is 
a  relief !  I  do  enjoy  these  little  talks  with  you,  darling, 
— ^you  don't  know — " 

Lawrance  felt  instantly  so  sure  of  her  enjoyment  that 
he  got  up  and  kissed  her.  He  was  all  the  more  baffled 
because  of  his  affection.  She  was  so  helpless,  so  harm- 
less, so  entirely  as  he  had  always  known  her  and  always 
would  know  her.  Noting  her  mauve-tinted  lips,  he 
thought  for  a  moment,  anxiously,  of  her  weak  heart. 
His  inheritance  from  her  of  that  weakness  was  a  bond 
between  them. 

"Mother,  I  do  want  to  talk  about  Letty."  He  knew 
it  was  no  use,  but  he  had  to  satisfy  his  conscience.  * '  You 
say  she's  sensible,  but  I'm  sure  she  doesn't  realize  in 
the  least.  I  know  she  doesn't.  I  must  do  something, 
really  I  must. ' ' 

"Oh,  Doctor  Peachey  told  her  most  distinctly  that  she 
must  keep  quiet." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  103 

'  *  But  she  doesn  't  keep  quiet —  I  do  wish  she  wouldn  't 
go  staying  with  those  awful  Levin  people!  The  worst 
kind  of  influence — " 

"Oh,  but  that  was  before  she  knew  she  wasn't  well, 
Oliver ! ' '  Mrs.  Lawrance  looked  comfortably  at  him,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "So  that  makes  it  all  quite  right, 
doesn't  it?"  "Yes,"  she  continued,  "it's  quite  true 
they  did  make  all  their  money  out  of  some  kind  of  soap 
for  dogs — or  was  it  a  dog-biscuit? — it's  advertised  every- 
where ;  how  stupid  of  me ;  I  ought  to  know.  Something 
for  dogs,  it  is,  I'm  sure  of  that, — but  every  one  knows 
them,  even  the  Duke,  and  they  certainly  did  help  Lord 
Framlingham  a  lot  at  the  last  Election.  Of  course  they 
wouldn't  have  been  quite  the  sort  of  people  one  knew  in 
the  old  days — but  still — " 

The  phrase  recalled  the  Flynns  and  Olga.  Lawrance, 
on  sudden  compulsion,  kissed  the  girl  again  in  imag- 
ination. He  flushed,  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  thoughts, 
they  seemed  to  be  guilty  of  a  gross  impropriety  as  he 
sat  there  by  his  mother's  bounteous  and  familiar 
form.  Again,  and  with  an  effort  as  before,  he  banished 
Olga. 

"It  was  probably  staying  with  those  Levins  that 
brought  on  the  trouble  with  Letty,"  he  said  gravely. 
"Late  hours  and  all  that." 

"I  don't  know  at  all,  dear."  Mrs.  Lawrance  sighed. 
* '  Of  course  she  must  keep  quiet. ' ' 

"  I  'm  sure  she  doesn 't  mean  to ! " 

His  mother  looked  at  him,  wondering  and  harassed. 
He  felt  remorseful.  What,  after  all,  was  the  point  of 
worrying  her?  He  must  take  the  matter  into  his  own 
hands.  "What  to  do?  He  kept  thinking  as  Mrs.  Law- 
rance talked. 


104  A  CHASTE  MAN 

*'And,  you  know,  they  say  that  Mr.  Chubb  and  Mr. 
Molliott  had  quite  a  quarrel — " 

She  branched  out  into  one  of  those  little  pieces  of  local 
gossip  that  she  turned  over  so  curiously  and  pondered 
upon  at  such  length.  For  so  long  as  her  son  could  re- 
member, she  had  been  occupied  almost  exclusively  either 
with  an  ineffective  struggling  concern — not  in  the  least 
avaricious — about  business,  or  with  a  carefully  weighted 
interest  in  the  doings  of  her  neighbours,  an  interest  that 
always  suggested  that  it  was  a  toil,  but  an  agreeable 
and  necessary  one,  to  her  to  keep  up  with  them.  Being 
aflflicted  by  a  genuine  disease,  she  was  not  occupied  with 
her  health:  her  doctor  interested  her  only  as  a  neigh- 
bour, and  because  of  his  bills. 

"...  and  it  seems  that  Mr.  Chubb  came  round  one 
morning,  and  Mr.  Molliott  was  in  bed.  ]\Ir.  Chubb 
wanted  a  book  and  Mr.  Molliott  threw  it  down  the  stairs 
and  hit  him  on  the  head.  Quite  unintentional,  of  course. 
It  was  one  of  those  heavy  books — a  Biography  or  a  book 
of  travels  or  something — so  unfortunate.  They  say  Mr. 
Chubb  was  very  angry  and  swore  dreadfully, — that  was 
what  the  housekeeper  said, — and  then  Mr.  Molliott 
laughed,  which  wasn  't  very  nice  of  him,  because  the  book 
had  struck  Mr.  Chubb  on  the  forehead, — but  I  don't  sup- 
pose he  knew  that, — it  struck  him  with  the  edge  and 
made  quite  a  wound.  And  they  were  such  old  friends. 
I  do  hope  they'll  make  it  up.  I  told  Mr.  Chubb  that  it 
wouldn  't  seem  so  bad  if  he  thought  of  the  soldiers  at  the 
front.  He  goes  about  with  a  plaster,  poor  man.  His 
cousin  is  quite  a  wonderful  woman.  ..."  And  so  on, 
gregariously  and  charitably,  till  Letty  came  back  and 
said  that  Muriel  had  gone  to  dress. 

"  Oh,  then  Mabel  is  ready  for  me — " 


A  CHASTE  MAN  105 

Mrs.  Lawrance  never  called  any  of  her  servants  by 
their  surnames.  Christian  names  conformed  with  the 
sort  of  intimacy  she  liked  to  have  with  them.  Her  son 
helped  her  up :  she  leaned  on  him  gently,  for  all  her  un- 
gauged  prodigality  of  flesh. 

Lawrance,  as  they  walked  upstairs  together,  had  a 
careful  eye  for  Letty.  Yes,  she  was  a  little  thinner, 
but  only  a  little:  really  she  had  hardly  altered  at  all. 
Her  eyes  were  brighter.  He  had  noticed  her  cough,  but 
it  came  rarely  and  seemed  insignificant.  Some  excuse 
for  her  refusal  to  take  her  illness  seriously,  perhaps. 
He  must  talk  to  her.  How  very  different  it  was  from 
what  he  had  expected!  One  thing  was  quite  certain; 
they  must  have  a  second  opinion.  Doctor  Peachey  was 
an  excellent  general  practitioner,  still  in  a  matter  of 
this  seriousness —  Of  course  any  one  but  his  mother 
would  have  insisted  upon  a  second  opinion.  No  doubt 
Doctor  Peachey  himself  had  suggested  it.  He  must  get 
Letty  up  to  London  to  see  a  specialist.  She  would  jump 
at  London.     That  would  be  easy. 

They  parted  from  their  mother  at  her  bedroom  door. 
"I  must  dress,  Budsie,"  said  the  girl,  using  the  name 
she  had  put  to  him  when  she  was  a  baby :  she  only  used 
it  now  when  they  were  alone. 

"Let's  come  with  you."  He  took  her  slim  arm,  and 
went  with  her  to  her  bedroom. 

*'0h!"  she  said,  as  she  turned  on  the  light,  "Amy 
hasn't  pulled  down  the  blinds." 

The  unglassed,  uncurtained  windows  struck  Lawrance 
as  reminders,  black  and  harsh,  of  his  sister's  state:  the 
little  blue  rolls  of  blind  at  the  tops  of  them  were  really 
ugly  in  their  meagreness. 

"It's  such  a  nuisance,"  Letty  went  on.    "She  pulls 


106  A  CHASTE  MAN 

them  all  down  before  I  dress  and  before  I  go  to  bed, 
then  she  comes  in  directly  afterwards  and  pulls  them  up 
again.  Oh!"  She  hurriedly  turned  off  the  electric 
switch.  "We're  breaking  the  law!  Are  they  strict  in 
London  about  lights  not  showing  from  houses  ?  They  're 
awfully  strict  here.  We  had  Mr.  MoUiott  in  the  other 
evening,  complaining ;  he 's  a  Special  Constable  now,  you 
know."  She  stopped  for  one  of  her  little  coughs.  "I 
generally  undress  in  the  bathroom." 

Lawrance  went  round  the  room,  pulling  down  the 
blinds.  When  he  turned  on  the  light  he  saw  that  his 
sister  was  leaning  against  the  back  of  a  chair. 

''You're  tired!" 

"No,  I'm  not!" 

She  walked  over  hurriedly  to  the  mirror  and  began 
unfastening  her  blouse.  He  looked  at  her  reflection ;  he 
was  struck  by  the  hard  sharp  sweet  savour  of  her  sis- 
terly intimacy  with  him.  How  keen  and  cool  their  affec- 
tion had  always  been !  How  full  of  trust  and  health, 
how  peculiarly  happy!  He  was  sure  of  her,  sure  that 
she  really  did  love  him —  She  took  off  her  blouse,  show- 
ing her  arms  and  her  neck :  yes,  she  was  certainly  thinner. 
Lawrance  sighed. 

"You  are  staring,  Budsie!" 

"Darling,  I  do  want  you  to  be  careful!" 

"Oh,  lam.'" 

"You  don't  look  careful,  somehow,  not  a  bit!" 

She  made  a  face  at  him  in  the  mirror ;  she  laughed  un- 
certainly.   "What  do  you  expect  me  to  look  like?" 

"I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  get  really  well  till  you 
get  away  from  here:  I  mean  till  you  lead  quite  a  differ- 
ent kind  of  life." 

"Why,  Malstowe  isn't  so  hilarious  as  all  that;  it  isn't 


A  CHASTE  MAN  107 

so  frantically  lively. ' '  She  began  playing  with  her  little 
blue  ribbons. 

"But  you  keep  on  going  out  to  all  sorts  of  things; 
dances  and  bridge-parties  and  dinners — nearly  every  day. 
I  heard  you  talking  to  Muriel.  I  don't  see  that  you're 
making  any  difference  at  all.  You'd  just  come  back 
from  a  motor  ride  when  we  turned  up." 

''Motoring's  good  for  me." 

**H'm.    Depends  on  whose  motor  it  is." 

*  *  Oh,  Mr.  Phillips  is  awfully  nice.  He 's  good  for  me, 
too!"  She  turned:  her  lighted  brown  eyes  teased  him 
frankly. 

"But  I'm  worried  about  you,  Letty  old  dear,  I  really 
am." 

"Yes,  it  is  an  awful  nuisance."  She  stood  up,  pressed 
her  little  hands  flat  to  either  side  of  the  top  of  her  skirt, 
releasing  the  snaps.  "But  it  isn't  as  though  I  had  the 
beastly  thing,  not  really  had  it." 

"I  wish  you'd  go  slow,  all  the  same,  just  for  a  bit." 

* '  Oh,  I  can 't  lock  myself  up,  Budsie ! ' ' 

"What  are  you  doing  to-night?  Staying  at  home  with 
us,  I  hope." 

"Well,  I  was  going  with  Miriam  for  bridge  at  the 
Coloners.    Is  that  awfully  wicked?" 

"Do  stay  with  us,  Letty.  Send  the  Conklings  a  note 
or  something." 

The  girl  hesitated  and  looked  grave.  "All  right,  I 
will,"  she  said,  but  she  took  it  hard;  she  was  clouded. 
"How  gregarious  she  is!"  he  thought.  "It's  every- 
thing to  her!"  But  he  was  pleased  by  her  compliance, 
which  seemed  to  give  good  promise.  He  went  and  kissed 
her  cheek. 

She  slipped  her  skirt  off,  with  a  clear  straight  de- 


108  A  CHASTE  MAN 

cisive  gesture  familiar  to  her  brother.  They  had  been 
used  from  childhood  to  seeing  one  another  dress  and 
undress;  they  had  never  thought  anything  of  going  in 
and  out  of  one  another's  bedrooms:  the  difference  of  sex, 
with  them,  had  been  merged  with  a  completeness  rarer 
than  it  is  supposed  or  pretended  to  be  with  brothers  and 
sisters.  Kather,  the  difference  had  been  distilled,  surely 
and  evenly,  through  the  whole  body  of  their  intimacy — 
Ah,  she  VMS  thinner!  She  hinted  frailness,  even,  and 
there  had  been  nothing  of  frailness  about  her  before :  she 
had  been  slender  and  strong.  This  was  terrible :  for  the 
first  time  it  seemed  to  Lawrance  really  terrible.  Letty 
caught  his  look  as  she  shook  out -her  hair: 

"What's  the  matter!"  she  cried,  and  her  lips  trembled 
a  little ;  for  the  first  time  she  looked  frightened.  * '  I  'm 
not  dying,  old  goose !    And  you  '11  be  late  for  dinner ! ' ' 

"Of  course  you're  not!  It's  only  that  I  hate  your 
being  even  the  least  little  bit  ill.  I  want  you  to  do  all 
you  can  so  as  to  stop  being  that — ^to  stop  it  quickly, 
darling,  quickly!    You  know — " 

He  broke  off ;  he  couldn  't  speak ;  he  was  convulsed  with 
the  emotion  of  his  desire  that  she  should  live.  All  sorts 
of  images  were  vivid  and  rapid  to  him  at  that  moment 
of  heightened  feeling:  Letty  a  child  of  twelve,  pulling 
her  dark-blue  jersey  over  her  tumbled  thick  hair:  Letty 
at  eight  or  nine,  learning  to  swim  with  him,  her  brown 
hard  little  limbs  gleaming  in  the  sun :  Letty  in  her  first 
"party-frocks,"  so  pleased  with  them,  so  eager  for 
coquetry  and  excitement:  then,  evoked  from  Letty  as 
she  was  then,  in  bodice  and  petticoat,  an  image  of  Muriel 
who  undressed  so  differently,  whose  way  of  undressing 
seemed  always  to  stamp  him  as  her  husband,  seemed 
always  to  have  some  arriere-pensee  to  which  he  never 


A  CHASTE  MAN  109 

could  quite  reconcile  himself:  then,  an  image  of  Olga,  a 
seemingly  disassociated  image  of  Olga  wandering  in 
space,  in  ignorance  of  the  future,  feeling  for  it, — an 
image  with  which  he  had  a  concern  that  would  not, 
could  not,  be  defined  or  located.  She  had  too  much 
curiosity,  had  Olga,  it  wasn't  normal  or  natural!  She 
reflected  and  wondered  too  much ;  if  she  were  there  with 
him  as  Letty  was,  she  would  be  waiting  and  wondering ; 
she  would  be  anxious ; — she  would  not  be  shy,  nor  would 
she  be  friendly,  nor  would  she  be  amorous.  He  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  her  dreams.  It  was — what  was  it? — 
it  was  insecure —  How  much  younger  Letty  was  than 
Olga,  though  a  good  eight  years  older !  How  to  account 
for  that?  Olga  was  spiritually  stripped;  he  could  al- 
most shudder  when  he  thought  of  her,  of  the  things  she 
said!  It  wasn't  right.  With  Letty  there  was  a  soften- 
ing and  enveloping  fragrancy,  a  spring-mist  of  fra- 
grancy  that  possessed  her  and  covered  her  up  and  made 
her  safe  in  it.  Olga  was  not  safe,  not  for  herself  nor 
for  any  one  else.  He  felt  for  the  first  time  that  Olga 
could  be  tremendously  stormy.  She  had  winter  in  her 
— ah,  yes,  but  she  had  all  the  seasons,  and  what  might 
she  not — !     He  checked  his  thoughts ;  he  was  ashamed. 

"I  want  you  to  be  safe,"  he  said,  clutching  at  the 
word,  diverting  his  reflections.  "Safe  every  way,"  he 
added,  half  aloud. 

She  moved  her  lips,  she  smiled  at  him,  she  smiled  with 
an  effort.  Ah,  curse  it,  she  was  tired !  He  left  her  ab- 
ruptly, blinking  at  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DURING  the  week  at  Malstowe  Lawrance's  mind 
had,  for  various  disturbances,  more  occasions 
than  a  few.  He  was  vexed  by  the  casualness, 
the  unimaginative  egotism,  as  he  saw  it,  of  the  general 
attitude  of  the  neighbours  towards  Letty:  it  seemed  to 
him  that  they  shook  limp  hands  with  her  condition,  in 
just  the  same  way  as  they  shook  limp  hands  with  one 
another  at  afternoon  teas  and  little  dances.  The  more 
reflective  of  them,  or  those  who  did  not  so  much  dis- 
guise their  feelings,  quickened  Lawrance's  alarm  no  less 
than  the  others  quickened  his  resentment.  With  height- 
ened observation  he  noticed  that  this  minority  realized 
fully  that  his  sister  was  "not  very  well,"  and  that  they 
were  impressed  by  her  defiance  quite  as  much  as  by  her 
justification  of  that  discreet  phrase.  She  justified  it 
with  a  fling  that  sent  her,  for  some  of  them,  clear  out  of 
the  reach  of  that  * '  Poor  girl !  I  do  hope  ..."  with  its 
sympathetic  sadness  and  sympathetic  hush.  She  was,  of 
course,  a  "poor  girl"  still,  but  more  prominently,  to 
this  minority,  she  was  a  "silly  girl"  or  a  "game  girl" 
or  a  "brave  girl"  or  a  "reckless"  one, — or  even  she  was 
"wicked."  In  her  brother  she  kept  on  arousing  alarm, 
indignation,  admiration  and  affection  in  turn.  "She 
doesn't  care!"  he  repeated  to  himself,  and  then  again, 
with  a  sting  of  tenderness  and  pain:  "She  doesn't 
know."  "If  only,"  he  would  think,  "she  wasn't  so 
abominably  pretty ! ' ' 
He  was  right  in  the  adverb.    Letty 's  good  looks  did 

110 


A  CHASTE  MAN  111 

play  ** abominably"  into  the  hands  of  her  gaiety.  Every 
physical  point  she  had  seemed  to  help  on  her  passion  for 
excitement  and  pleasure, — all  of  it  "  innocent, ' '  but  with 
male  admiration  of  her  drenching  the  whole  texture  all 
the  time.  "It's  hard  luck,"  thought  Lawrance;  "it's 
the  worst  kind  of  hard  luck."  He  had  not  seen  her  for 
several  months.  Again  and  again  he  reflected  that  she 
was  prettier  than  ever  now  she  was  ill. 

Lawrance  was  disturbed,  too,  by  recurring  thoughts 
of  Olga,  by  recurring  desires  for  her;  thoughts  and  de- 
sires that  afflicted  him  deeply  with  a  sense  of  dishonour. 
The  dishonour  was  the  blacker  for  him  because  Letty 
was  ill.  Towards  the  end  of  the  week  he  had  a  letter 
from  Olga,  forwarded  from  Chiswick:  "Why  don't  you 
come  and  see  us?  I  want  you  to  come.  Love  from 
Olga."  And  then  a  postscript:  "I'm  not  sorry,  but 
perhaps  you  are. "  She  began  "Dear  Lorrie."  She  had 
remembered.  Lawrance 's  senses  betrayed  him  horribly 
on  the  spur  of  this  little  letter;  his  thoughts  about  the 
postscript  kept  at  fever-heat:  in  what  way  wasn't  she 
sorry?  how,  in  her  mind,  did  what  she  was  not  sorry 
for  appear?  A  sudden  seduction  of  his  principles,  his 
intellect,  his  judgment,  overwhelmed  him,  even  more 
strongly  than  it  had  on  the  night  when  he  physically 
yielded.  He  went  to  his  dressing-room  and  wrote: 
"Darling  Olga,  I'll  come  to  you  at  once,  as  soon  as  I 
get  home,  only  two  or  three  days.  I've  been  away — 
thinking  always  about  you.  I  love  you. — L."  He  put 
the  letter  in  an  envelope  and  sealed  it  hurriedly.  Then 
he  heard  his  wife 's  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  door 
— ^that  other  side ! — asking  him  if  he  wasn't  coming  down 
to  see  old  Colonel  Conkling. 

"Yes,  in  a  moment!" 


112  A  CHASTE  MAN. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  replied. 

His  tortured  voice  had  surprised  himself  as  well  as 
Muriel.  * '  Yes,  what 's  the  matter  with  me  ? "  he  thought. 
"No  control." 

He  told  her  "Nothing;  it's  all  right,"  forcing  his  tone; 
then  he  took  the  letter  he  had  written  and  tore  it  up. 

A  hundred  Colonel  Conklings  reared  themselves  moun- 
tainously  before  him.  They  walled  him  in,  these  people : 
a  Lord  Burpham,  a  Colonel  Conkling,  had  only  to  ap- 
pear, and  there  with  them  was  their  steely  wand  for  con- 
juring. How  immoveable  they  were,  how  tremendously 
important.  .  .  .  All  that  week  they  had  walled  him  in, 
they  had  set  him  fast —    ' '  All  right,  I  'm  coming ! ' ' 

The  next  day  he  wrote,  stubbornly  resistant  both  to 
his  passion  and  to  his  inhibitions,  a  letter  that  satisfied 
neither : 

"Dear  Olga,  As  you  see,  I  have  been  away  from  Lon- 
don. I'll  come  and  see  you  all  when  I'm  back  in  a  few 
days.     I  think  I  am  sorry — I  don't  know. — 0.  L." 

He  would  not  have  mentioned  his  sister  for  the  world. 

His  reconciliation  with  Muriel  did  not  prosper.  She 
behaved  well;  she  attended  on  his  mother,  affectionate 
to  her  and  affectionate  to  Letty;  tactful  and  quiet  with 
him.  But  for  all  that  he  could  not  like  her ;  he  liked  her 
much  less  than  during  the  time  that  followed  the  theatre 
night;  he  caught  himself  in  the  immoral  reflection  that 
the  more  he  was  with  Olga  the  better  disposed,  perhaps, 
he  would  be  to  his  wife.  Certainly  he  had  had,  imme- 
diately after  his  embraces  of  Olga,  a  much  stronger  phys- 
ical attraction  to  Muriel  than  he  had  now.  Now  she 
hardly  interested  him  at  all,  though  she  was  far  from 
offering  him  any  sort  of  rebuff.  She  was  still  docile, — 
pliable,  good-tempered.    Lawrance  censured  himself  for 


A  CHASTE  MAN  118 

his  distaste  for  her,  and  for  the  causes  of  his  distaste, — 
causes  that  sometimes  seemed  blackguardly,  sometimes 
mean.  She  was  not  so  well  bred  as  his  own  people  or 
their  acquaintances;  this  was  plainly  seen:  she  was  al- 
ways making  very  little  lapses,  and  she  knew  it.  Her 
juxtaposition  with  these  others  threw  her  into  a  forgot- 
ten light  for  Lawrance;  it  was  painful  to  him  doubly, 
making  him  ashamed  of  her,  and  ashamed  of  himself 
for  being  ashamed.  He  could  not  help  criticizing  her  as 
though  she  were  a  stranger,  when  he  saw  her  with  other 
people.  At  the  same  time  he  was  sorry  for  her, — poor 
girl  so  trying  to  do  her  best, — and  that  hurt  him  too. 
He  was  sorry  for  her,  without  any  of  that  intimate  ten- 
derness that  his  conscience  enjoined  as  the  right  thing. 
Repeatedly  he  called  her  ''darling";  often  he  thought: 
"Now  if  I  knew  that  any  one  else  felt  like  this,  what  a 
cad  I  should  think  him!"  He  had  always  been  in 
earnest  with  himself,  but  never  so  thoroughly  and  so 
continuously  in  earnest  as  now. 

He  made  harassed  plans  for  Letty,  whose  gay,  pretty, 
spirited  yet  not  really  happy  nonchalance  seemed  every 
day  more  baffling.  She  always  wanted  to  be  doing  some- 
thing ;  she  slid  rather  than  chafed  away  from  all  invalid 
routine.  She  would  say :  ' '  Oh,  I  can  go ;  I  can  wear  a 
high  frock":  then  she  went,  and  wore  a  low  one.  Her 
former  girlishly  bright  love  of  diversion  seemed  to  have 
become  unnaturally  touched,  changed  to  a  preoccupation 
tarnished  by  stressed  and  secretive  purpose. 

Sometimes  Lawrance  would  resolvedly  forget  his  con- 
cern for  his  sister,  his  distaste  for  his  wife,  his  tempta- 
tion to  Olga,  and  the  age-long  fortified  code  that  blocked 
his  way  to  her ;  but  in  the  relaxation  of  night  everything 
crept  back  into  his  blood.  He  would  wake  strugglingly, 
to  his  same  divided  self. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BEFORE  leaving  Malstowe  Lawrance  had  inter- 
viewed Doctor  Peachey,  and  had  got  him  to  prom- 
ise to  write  at  once  if  Letty  were  any  worse :  to 
write,  in  any  case,  in  a  month,  with  a  general  report.  A 
comparatively  new  arrival,  the  alert  little  man  was  al- 
most a  stranger  to  Lawrance,  who  was  so  far  impressed 
by  his  ability  that  he  waived  for  the  time  the  project 
for  a  second  opinion.  Doctor  Peachey  was  evidently  on 
the  look-out;  he  could  be  trusted.  The  interview  was 
short :  Lawrance  was  told  that  there  was  no  reason,  tak- 
ing the  case  in  its  present  character,  why  his  sister  should 
not  remain  under  treatment  at  Malstowe ;  indeed  it  might 
do  her  more  harm  than  good  to  be  sent  away :  psycholog- 
ical effects  had  to  be  considered.  The  doctor  would  not 
commit  himself  to  any  forecast.  Lawrance  was  relieved 
to  see  that  Peachey  had  fully  grasped  the  copious  in- 
capacity of  his  patient 's  mother. 

The  first  days  following  their  return  to  London  passed 
dully  and  doggedly.  Lawrance  was  stuffed  to  suffoca- 
tion by  the  undigested  emotions  of  shame  and  disgust. 
It  was  a  moral  nausea  that  he  could  not  diagnose  in  the 
least:  diagnosis  never  occurred  to  him.  He  simply  suf- 
fered. He  drove  at  his  work  at  the  Office  with  a  forced 
energy  that  lacked  any  eagerness  or  intention.  Inge 
could  not  give  him  enough  to  do.  When  he  came  back 
home  he  was  silent,  preoccupied  with  the  effort  not  to 
think  either  about  his  wife  or  about  Olga :  but  his  blood 

114 


A  CHASTE  MAN  115 

ran  in  aversion  to  Muriel  and  in  active  desire  for  the 
girl.  The  aversion  was  not  active;  he  blindly  wanted 
it  to  be,  for  his  own  relief:  he  would  have  had  scope, 
then ;  he  would  not  have  been  bound  up  as  he  was.  He 
wished  Muriel  no  harm ;  his  feeling  towards  her  was  not 
now  one  of  hatred;  it  was  rather  that  it  added  to  the 
weight  he  bore  that  she  should  be  there :  the  look  of  her, 
her  voice,  drove  him  down  and  held  him  under,  to  the 
grasp  of  an  inert  horror.  All  the  natural  fluid  of  his 
feelings  seemed  turned  to  a  sediment  that  choked  him. 

For  his  own  protection  he  tried  to  keep  thinking  of 
his  sister;  he  repeated  to  himself:  ''I'll  take  her  away 
in  a  month,  if  she's  not  better,"  but  the  words  had  no 
meaning,  no  interest.  His  shame  was  driven  further  into 
him :  he  felt  that  he  must  have  lost  his  affection  for  Letty, 
lost  his  sensitiveness.  He  saw  himself  not  only  as  an 
unprincipled  cad,  but  as  a  heartless  brute.  He  lay  awake 
at  night,  twinged  with  his  formless  self -distrusts :  he 
travailed  with  the  unnamed  abortions  of  his  senses; 
strove  passionately  towards  some  purgation  that  should 
bring  a  different  and  a  clearer  pain,  a  pain  that  some 
sort  of  expression  in  reason  might  explain  and  relieve. 
He  knew,  and  was  shocked  by  knowing,  that  he  would 
be  glad  if  Doctor  Peachey  were  to  write  at  the  end  of 
the  month  that  Letty  was  worse  and  ought  to  be  taken 
away.  He  longed  for  the  clear  call  on  his  altruism  that 
this  would  be.  It  seemed  horrible  to  him  that  he  should 
have  such  a  wish :  he  was  too  honest  not  to  face  it,  much 
too  ethically-minded  not  to  loathe  it.  At  times  he  could 
almost  believe  that  the  Devil  had  got  him, — or  one  of 
those  ' '  Elementals ' '  about  which  he  had  written  so  much 
that  they  had  come  to  be  only  things  of  pen  and  paper 
to  him.    He  had  no  more  faith  in  them  than  he  had  in 


116  A  CHASTE  MAN 

the  Devil:  these  mediseval  consolations  did  not  serve. 

He  noticed  that  Muriel  kept  watching  him,  and  not 
only  Muriel,  but  the  other  women,  the  servants.  Once 
or  twice  he  surprised  an  inquisitive  and  sympathetic 
glance  from  Mary,  his  pretty  parlourmaid ;  he  was  struck 
by  the  unusualness  of  her  look,  that  was  not,  however, 
at  all  flagrantly  indiscreet.  The  sympathetic  glance  of 
Mary  gave  him  consolation,  sudden  and  swift.  He  found 
himself  wishing  that  she  could  know  what  was  wrong 
with  him;  she  could  help  him,  he  felt.  He  reached  out 
yearning  for  the  support  of  a  woman's  sentiments:  he 
longed  to  be  in  this  way  spiritually  nursed.  The  under- 
standing of  another,  that  might  be  a  cure  for  his  evil: 
if  only  she  could  be  understanding  without  being  told! 
Muriel 's  watching  looks  made  him  worse ;  they  seemed  to 
break  up  and  scatter  his  intelligence :  he  felt  that  she  was 
watching  for  herself,  that  her  vigilance  was  not  related 
to  his  own  healing  at  all. 

For  several  days  he  did  not  go  to  Olga,  nor  did  he 
write  to  her.  On  a  Sunday  he  started  out  after  lunch, 
half  decided  for  the  Glasden  Road.  Muriel  looked 
closely  at  him,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  had  been,  in 
general,  calmly  and  expectantly  silent  since  the  Malstowe 
visit.  Lawrance  took  the  first  tram  that  came  up,  a 
tram  to  Shepherd 's  Bush.  When  the  Tube  train  stopped 
at  Marble  Arch  he  got  out,  on  a  sudden  decision.  He 
was  nearly  too  late :  the  door  was  beginning  to  close,  and 
did  indeed  shut  out  a  man  who  was  a  moment  later  than 
he,  a  man  who  had  started  from  his  place  in  the  middle 
of  the  car  just  after  Lawrance  had  made  his  move. 
Lawrance,  hearing  expostulations,  looked  back  from  the 
platform  and  saw  a  little  dark  person  with  a  heavy 
moustache  and  a  pale  face,  gesturing  in  a  restrained 


A  CHASTE  MAN  117 

authoritative  maimer  to  the  conductor. —  ** Sorry,  sir; 
you'll  have  to  get  out  at  Bond  Street  and  go  back. ' '  The 
train  went  on. 

Lawrance  walked  over  to  the  Park  entrance  and  wan- 
dered to  the  forum  of  an  atheist  lecturer.  ''Pillar  of 
salt ! ' '  the  derisive  voice  assailed  him.  * '  Why  didn  't  he 
turn  Lot  into  pepper  and  the  other  two  into  oil  and 
vinegar,  and  make  a  cruet  of  it  while  he  was  abaht  it ! " 

"Stow  yer  jaw,  yer  blasphemious  worm!  Gawd  11 
strike  you  one  of  these  days  with  yer  tuppeny- 'alf penny 
lip,  yer  dirty  owl ! ' ' 

"Ow,  will  'e?  Wish  'e'd  strike  you  into  a  gin-and- 
bitters,  there  'd  be  some  use  for  you  then ! '  * 

Lawrance 's  grave  look  stayed:  he  responded  only  to 
the  mention  of  gin-and-bitters :  wondered  if  a  drink 
would  do  him  good,  if  he  could  be  helped  at  all  by  the 
sympathy  of  alcohol.  But  he  dismissed  this  idea:  he 
associated  drinking  with  happy  moods  and  the  collabora- 
tion of  friends. 

' '  Go  071  f er  'im !    Swipe  the  brute ! ' ' 

The  words  reached  Lawrance  from  some  fifty  yards 
away.  He  turned,  and  observed  a  growing  crowd  at 
this  distance,  a  crowd  that  was  beginning  to  chop  in  ugly 
little  uncertain  uneven  waves.  Two  or  three  policemen 
stood  on  the  outskirts;  with  an  air  of  heavy  wariness, 
of  suppressed  resentment  in  familiarity.  It  seemed  that 
the  crowd  belonged  to  them,  that  it  was  a  dog  on  a  long 
leash.  Another  policeman,  in  a  stout  binding  of  official 
neutrality,  began  slowly  walking  up  from  the  Marble 
Arch  Gates. 

"You  shut  it,  or  you'll  get  yer  fice  smashed !" 

Lawrance  walked  rapidly  up  to  the  crowd.  He  liked 
his  feeling  of  excitement.    A  young  man  was  talking 


118  A  CHASTE  MAN 

over  there ;  he  wanted  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about 
and  why  he  was  stirring  this  hostility.  He  could  see  his 
face  clearly  now,  a  face  that  was  pale  and  of  a  deep-set 
anxious  earnestness, — a  long  face,  with  prominent  light- 
blue  eyes,  and  a  stretched  thin  jaw  that  worked  with 
grotesque  emphasis.  His  hair  was  rather  long;  he  kept 
brushing  it  back  from  his  forehead.  He  was  shouting 
rapidly  and  unremittingly.  Lawrance  caught  a  few 
words:  "I  say  we  are  being  fooled!" — **They  tell  you 
your  country  needs  you;  I  tell  you — " 

There  was  a  banner  fluttering  by  the  young  man's 
head,  a  white  banner,  gilt-lettered — "Fellowship" — 
"Peace" — "World" — Lawrance  made  out.  He  was  in 
the  crowd  now.  "What's  it  all  about?"  he  asked  the 
person  next  to  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  asked  he  recog- 
nized his  neighbour  as  the  dark  heavy-moustached  man 
who  had  not  been  quick  enough  in  getting  out  of  the 
Tube  train. 

"Oh,  one  of  those  'Stop  the  War'  fellows,"  a  quiet 
non-committal  voice  informed  him.  But  the  man  seemed 
surprised,  and  sheered  off  at  once. 

".  .  .  all  are  Christian  countries!  Our  Blessed  Lord 
and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ — " 

A  bottle  flew  through  the  air  and  hit  the  speaker  on 
the  mouth.  He  put  up  his  hand  and  gave  a  cry:  the 
crowd  saw  that  he  was  gashed,  and  they  gave  out  a 
crowing  howl  of  pleasure.  Another  missile  followed  im- 
mediately, but  fell  short  at  the  feet  of  the  Peace  Propa- 
gandist. There  was  a  sudden  charge  at  the  wooden  plat- 
form, the  chair  on  which  the  speaker  was  standing  shot 
away,  Lawrance  caught  a  moment's  glimpse  of  the  pale 
earnest  unfrightened  face  dropping  down.  He  felt  he 
must  go  on  into  the  crowd ;  he  had  no  intention,  but  he 


A  CHASTE  MAN  119 

must  go  on.  He  thrust  his  way  with  force  that  gathered 
up  to  fury.  The  noise  and  the  turmoil  of  bodies  did  not 
seem  to  be  about  him  but  through  him  and  of  him.  He 
was  charged  with  the  blind  turbulence  of  a  collective  will. 
But,  mixed  with  him,  it  was  not  the  will  to  destroy,  but 
the  much  more  characteristic  will  to  oppose. 

'  *  The  man  has  a  right  to  be  heard ! "  he  called  fiercely 
out.     ' '  Where  is  he  ?"  he  thought.     ' '  I  must  get  to  him. ' ' 

A  big  loosely-built  man  of  middle  age,  a  man  with 
harsh  little  eyes  and  a  gross  mouth,  blocked  the  path  he 
fought  for. 

''What  do  you  think  you're  doing,  eh?"  he  cried. 
*  *  Do  you  want  to  make  trouble  for  yourself  ? ' ' 

Lawrance,  with  all  the  violence  of  his  nerves  in  his 
two  hands,  pushed  the  man,  who  fell  with  arms  in  air 
under  a  foot  that  trampled  the  edge  of  his  slack  cheek'. 
In  a  fury  with  the  pain  he  heaved  himself  up  from  the 
ground,  sending  a  couple  of  youths  in  a  flying  lurch 
against  the  back  of  a  policeman.  The  policeman,  who 
had  a  tight  clasp  on  one  of  the  more  vociferous  rioters, 
stumbled  and  swore ;  he  let  his  captive  go,  and  drew  out 
his  truncheon. 

"You  look  out  there,"  he  called,  **or  I'll  give  you  a 
taste!" 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  be  knocked  down  for  nothing!"  the 
slack-faced  man  yelled. 

He  waved  his  arm  behind  his  head  and  slung  it  with 
awkward  heavy  motion  against  Lawrance 's  chin;  Law- 
rance moved  his  head ;  he  was  only  grazed ;  he  struck  at 
the  man's  mouth,  then  with  his  other  hand  at  his  nose. 
The  blows  he  gave  thrilled  him  with  their  expense  of 
his  spirit :  the  blows  he  received  in  return  were  irrelevant 
to  him;  he  did  not  consciously  try  to  parry  them.    He 


120  A  CHASTE  MAN 

was  struck  heavily  from  behind  on  the  shoulder;  his 
knees  gave,  he  tottered  and  found  himself  being  lifted 
off  his  feet,  in  a  swirl  that  was  all  a  medley  of  the  mental 
and  the  physical.  In  the  distance  he  saw  the  receding 
face  of  his  antagonist,  a  face  blood-smeared,  angry  and 
alive  with  pain.  Lawrance  felt  no  pain  and  no  anger: 
only  a  spreading  satisfaction  and  relief. 

"Keep  off  there!  'Aven't  yer  'ad  enough  of  it?"  A 
robust-looking  man,  with  an  agreeable  competent  face 
with  resonant  features,  was  keeping  the  people  off  Law- 
rance. "You  git  aht,  young  feller;  that's  the  best  thing 
you  can  do." 

"Where's  that  man  who  was  talking?" 

"A  cop  got  'im  all  right.  Don't  you  worry."  The 
crowd  was  scattering  now;  the  police  were  making  fur- 
ther arrests.  "You  tike  my  tip  and  git  off  quick,  or 
the  cop '11  pinch  you  too.  They've  enough  to  do  now 
with  them  that's  up  front.  You  tike  my  tip — git  along 
to  the  Lavatory  and  striten  yerself  up  a  bit. ' ' 

* '  That  man  had  a  right  to  be  heard ! ' ' 

"G'am!  Cat-ficed  blighter,  'e  is.  Ought  to  be  put 
in  a  lunatic  asylum.     One  of  them  cowardly  sniflflers. ' ' 

"He  wasn't  a  coward!" 

"Look  'ere,  you  come  along  with  me." 

The  man  welcomed  the  opportunity  for  authoritative 
benevolence.  He  put  his  arm  in  Lawrance 's  and  walked 
him  off.  Lawrance,  suddenly  passive,  yielded  to  him. 
From  a  neighbouring  booth  of  Evangelism  ' '  God  be  mer- 
ciful to  me  a  sinner ! ' '  struck  his  ears  with  a  shock. 

"We  don't  want  to  'ear  our  boys  in  Flanders  called 
fools  fer  goin',  see?  More'n  flesh  an'  blood  can  stand — 
'Ow  abaht  gittin'  into  khaki  yerself,  my  lad,  if  you  must 
be  scrappin*?" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  121 

**I  wish  I  could."  Lawrance's  mind  came  back  to  him 
in  a  leap :  he  was  struck  by  the  sincerity  of  his  answer, 
by  the  fact  that  he  had  not  felt  like  that  before.  ' '  Doc- 
tor said  no  use  my  trying,"  he  added. 

' '  Ow. ' '  They  went  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  the 
Public  Lavatory. 

"Now  'ere's  the  plice  for  you.  What  you  want  is 
tuppence  worf  of  wash  and  brush-up. ' ' 

Lawrance  thanked  him:  he  went  in  and  followed  the 
advice. —  As  he  began  washing,  his  brain  started  into 
violent  motion.  Why  had  he  wanted  to  be  in  the  war? 
One  ought  to  want  to  fight  on  principle ;  he  didn  't.  He 
had  no  principles ;  there  was  something  altogether  wrong 
with  him;  he  thought  only  of  himself.  He  grew  more 
conscious  of  his  physical  pain;  his  face  and  his  left 
shoulder  hurt  him:  the  pain  kept  coming  on,  but  it 
seemed  merely  to  trifle  with  his  body.  He  washed,  hurt- 
ing himself  more,  but  always  insignificantly. —  Suppose 
he  could  fight  against  the  war, — like  that  earnest  young 
man  with  his  religious  daring, — that  would  do  just  as 
well,  he  knew.  It  must  be  that  he  cared  nothing  for 
great  causes:  no,  and  affections  were  nothing  to  him, 
either ;  nothing  in  comparison  with  what  might  help  and 
relieve  him.  How  base  of  him  to  contemplate  the  use 
of  Letty's  illness  for  himself!  Yet  he  was  fond  of  his 
sister;  he  did  love  her.  He  was  fond  of  old  Flynn  and 
his  "Patsey,"  too:  it  was  hateful  that  they,  as  well, 
should  shrink  to  this  same  insignificance.  Why  should 
the  slender  dangerous  hands  of  that  girl  push  everything 
out  of  sight? —  His  lips  would  not  stop  bleeding.  "I 
must  go  to  a  chemist's,"  he  thought,  "and  get  something 
for  my  mouth."  "My  mouth"!  He  hated  the  word 
"my":  it  seemed  to  bring  him  up  so  horribly  close  to 


122  A  CHASTE  MAN 

himself.  He  patted  his  beaten  face  with  a  towel;  more 
and  more  he  was  appalled  by  his  own  paltriness,  by  his 
lack  of  generosity,  his  lack  of  principle.  Looking  at  his 
swollen  ugly  mouth,  at  his  bunged  eye,  he  thought  again 
of  Olga ;  he  thought  of  how  he  had  kissed  and  held  her. 
* '  Oh,  this  means  more  to  you  than  your  country  or  your 
sister ! '  *  He  did  not  so  feelingly  reproach  himself  with 
regard  to  his  wife,  in  spite  of  the  demands  of  his  code. 
He  had  an  unadmitted  conviction  that  the  bond  between 
himself  and  Muriel  was  unfair:  and  she  was  not  real 
to  him  as  Letty  was,  or  as  England.  England  had  a 
strange  indispensable  claim;  England  was  deep  in  his 
life.  Yet  this  wretched  illicit  passion  for  a  young  girl 
was  the  most  important  thing  of  all. 

Lawrance  ceased  to  feel  his  physical  pain.  He  tried  to 
pray,  there  over  a  wash-basin  in  the  Public  Lavatory 
of  Marble  Arch.  * '  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner ! ' ' — 
"I  will  try  to  be  good!"  he  resolved,  in  the  phrase  of 
childhood.  Then  he  was  overwhelmed  by  horrible  nausea, 
he  stumbled  from  the  basin,  with  his  hands  clutching  his 
stomach.  He  fainted  in  the  closet,  in  the  midst  of  his 
vomiting.  .  .  .  His  consciousness  returned  to  him  in  a 
vile  filtration,  tainted  through  and  through  by  all  the 
horrid  spilth  in  which  he  was.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
groaned.     "I  am  like  this,"  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LITTLE  patches  of  blackness  kept  obscuring  Law- 
rance's  senses  at  intervals  as  he  went  back  to 
Chiswick.  After  going  to  a  chemist's  he  took 
a  cab,  rather  from  consideration  for  Muriel  than  for  him- 
self. He  was  too  much  withdrawn  for  stares  to  disturb 
him,  but  it  would  make  his  wife  uncomfortable,  he  knew, 
the  exposure  of  his  damaged  and  plastered  face  in  Tubes 
and  trams. 

The  weariness  of  explaining  his  condition  to  Muriel 
came  dully  to  him  now  and  again ;  he  wondered  idly  how 
she  would  take  it,  but  he  did  not  care.  All  that  was  a 
waste  of  time. 

The  first  person  that  he  saw  in  the  house  was  the  pretty 
parlour-maid.  He  resisted  the  impulse  to  hide  his  face 
from  her  as  he  walked  upstairs,  and  she  looked  up  at  him, 
startled  and  grave.    * '  Oh,  sir ! " 

*'It's  all  right,  Mary." 

"Couldn't  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir?  Shall  I  go 
and  tell  mistress  ? ' '     The  girl 's  lip  quivered. 

*'Yes.     I'm  going  to  my  room." 

He  went  on  up,  feeling  a  malicious  physical  pressure 
on  his  heart,  a  pressure  that  sent  twisted  waves  through 
his  head.  He  walked  stubbornly  to  his  room  and  fell  on 
his  bed.  The  pain  grew  much  worse ;  in  his  shoulder  it 
was  especially  acute.  He  was  parched,  not  only  in  his 
mouth,  but  in  all  his  body.  He  longed  for  water,  but 
could  not  get  up  to  reach  the  carafe  from  his  washstand. 

123 


124  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Very  soon  the  maid  Mary  tapped  at  his  door.  He  did 
not  answer,  but  she  came  in  without  tapping  again. 

** Mistress  is  out,  sir,"  she  said.  Then,  as  he  did  not 
speak :     *  *  Is  there  anything  I  could  do  ? " 

"Yes,  I  want  some  water." 

The  pain  of  his  shoulder  and  his  intermittent  giddiness 
were  violently  distressing  to  him,  but  the  sight  of  the 
girl,  as  she  crossed  the  room,  was  a  help,  a  release.  She 
was  made  so  softly  yet  so  firmly,  the  movement  of  her 
body  seemed  sympathetic  with  such  a  curious  meaning, 
she  was  utterly  a  woman  .  .  .  willing  in  service,  drawing 
her  power  from  just  that  will.  .  .  .  Again  Lawrance 
wondered  why  he  had  not  noticed  her  more.  What 
pretty  hair,  what  pretty  colour ! 

''Hadn't  I  better  go  and  get  you  some  fresh,  sir?" 
She  hesitated  by  the  washstand.  * '  Or  shall  I  bring  you 
the  giraffe?" 

Lawrance  was  seized  by  a  panic  of  laughter.  "The 
giraffe"  seemed  to  him  tormentingly  funny,  far  funnier 
than  anything  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  "The 
giraffe ! ' '  His  laughter  hurt  him ;  he  rocked  and  gur- 
gled and  groaned,  but  he  had  to  laugh  on.  The  maid 
stood,  astounded.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen 
him  laugh,  except  in  a  perfunctory  way.  The  master 
was  not  easily  amused ;  he  was  not  at  all  a  humorous  gen- 
tleman. But  now,  when  he  was  ill,  to  be  carrying  on  like 
this !     It  must  be  hysterics,  like.  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  he  gasped  ;  "bring  it  to  me.     Bring  me  the — " 

He  laughed  again.  Only  his  urgent  desire  to  drink 
checked  him.  The  water  tasted  like  and  unlike  itself, 
as  though  it  had  tried  to  be  water  and  partially  failed, 
Lawrance  was  reminded  of  his  sensations  some  years 
ago,  in  smoking  the  first  cigarette  after  an  abstinence  of 


A  CHASTE  MAN  125 

several  weeks:  he  had  broken  himself  gradually  and 
pertinaciously  of  the  habit,  because  of  his  heart.  The 
tobacco  had  tasted  like  and  unlike  itself,  in  something 
the  same  way. 

He  handed  the  carafe  back  to  the  girl.  "I  don't  like 
it  much,  Mary,"  he  told  her. 

"Should  I  get  some  barley-water  for  you,  sir?"  She 
was  eager  and  nervous,  her  quick  look  at  him  had  in  it 
curiosity,  tenderness  and  admiration,  all  mingled  em- 
barrassingly for  her. 

"Yes,  do." 

Lawrance's  attention  fixed  itself  to  the  girl's  hand, 
with  its  plump  pleasant  fingers.  So  much  a  woman's 
hand,  it  was, — a  caressing,  reassuring  hand,  not  a  trou- 
bling hand  like  Olga  's.  It  made  him  feel  safe,  and  right. 
He  tried  to  believe  that  it  did  not  mean  so  much  less 
than  that  other.  His  pain  quickened ;  he  took  the  hand 
in  his,  and  the  girl  blushed  crimson.  She  looked  away, 
and  so  did  her  master. 

"I  got  mixed  up,  you  see,  in  a  sort  of  a  riot  in  Hyde 
Park.  Crowd  got  out  of  hand,  A  regular  fight. 
Couldn't  be  helped." 

As  he  went  on  telling  her  what  had  happened,  he  was 
more  in  ease  and  contentment.  His  conscience  gave  him 
no  trouble,  for  it  could  not  accuse  him  of  being  phys- 
ically stirred.  There  was  nothing  "wrong"  in  this,  he 
felt  sure,  because  there  was  nothing  of  sex  as  he  thought 
of  sex.  He  was  extraordinarily  gratified  by  the  girl's 
liking  him;  above  everything  else  just  then  he  wanted 
to  be  liked  by  a  woman.  It  seemed  that  Mary's  liking 
for  him  made  the  air  tender  to  his  head  and  his  body. 
He  was  grateful  and  fond,  and  he  had  the  sense  of  a 
gratefulness  and  fondness  in  her,  forthgoing  to  gentle 


126  A  CHASTE  MAN 

union.    Yet  every  minute  his  stiffness  and  soreness  were 
more  imperative. 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  Her  fingers  twitched  in  his  hand. 
*  *  Ought  I  to  do  something  to  the  bandage  ? ' ' 

"No,  Mary — thank  you.  The  man  said  leave  them 
till  to-morrow. ' ' 

"I'd  get  the  barley-water,  if  you  wished,  sir," 

"I'd  rather  you  stayed." 

She  was  not  in  the  same  way  embarrassed  now,  but 
she  kept  thinking  apprehensively  of  her  mistress  and 
of  the  other  servants.  Her  pleasure  went  in  disturbed 
flickers ;  she  was  puzzled  and  unprepared. 

"I'd  better  not, — ^sir,"  she  tentatively  answered. 
Hearing  a  rapid  step  on  the  stair,  she  released  her  hand 
from  his  light  clasp.  The  step  came  nearer.  As  she 
went  to  the  door,  she  gave  herself  a  little  shake,  and  a 
little  pat  to  her  hair  under  her  cap.  "I'll  get  cook  to 
make  the  barley-water,  sir,"  she  said  gravely,  opening 
the  door,  and  confronting,  as  she  knew  she  would,  her 
mistress. 

Muriel,  in  outdoor  dress,  went  straight  into  the  room, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  servant.  * '  Why,  Doll ! ' '  she  cried. 
The  door  closed.    * '  What  has  happened  ? ' ' 

She  sat  by  him  on  the  bed  and  took  his  hand.  He 
winced  from  her.  She  looked  at  him,  frightened,  and 
her  lip  drew  down.  His  face  was  bitter  and  stubborn; 
he  was  resenting  his  pain  and  resenting  her,  who  seemed 
to  be  in  the  tide  of  his  pain  to  strengthen  the  surge  of  it. 

"It's  nothing  much,  really,"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 

Muriel,  still  looking  at  him,  collapsed  with  sudden 
tears.  Her  husband  stared  at  her,  even  more  resent- 
fully. "How  unfair  she  is!"  he  thought.  He  wished 
brutally  that  she  would  cover  her  face. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  127 

*  *  Oh,  Muriel ! "  He  took  his  peevish  stand  on  his  pre- 
rogative as  an  invalid.  "I  do  wish  you  wouldn't! 
Don't  make  it  worse  by  making  a  fuss!"  She  sobbed 
still,  but  now  she  hid  her  face :  she  put  up  her  hand  de- 
fensively from  him.  ' '  It 's  nothing, ' '  he  went  on  angrily. 
**I  got  into  a  fighting  crowd  in  the  Park.  All  right  in 
a  day  or  two.  Why,  think  of  the  thousands  of  men 
who  're  being  seriously  wounded  I ' '  He  felt  a  small  pride 
in  himself  as  he  said  this.  ' '  I  tell  you  I  '11  be  able  to  get 
to  the  Office  to-morrow ! ' ' 

"Oh,  it  isn't  ^/laL'" 

"Well,  what,  then?" 

She  turned  from  him,  shaking,  unable  to  speak.  Her 
sobs  drove  faster,  under  sickening  impetus;  and  then 
were  blended  with  a  racking  pseudo-laughter  that  fright- 
ened Lawrance  away  from  his  rage  and  his  artificial 
brutality. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried,  steadying  himself. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  again.  Her 
small  mouth  had  a  twist  of  wretchedness,  a  twist  that 
was  naive  and  weak  and  helpless.  She  looked  like  a 
punished  unhappy  child. 

"It's  because" — she  began  to  cry  again — "it's  be- 
cause you  don't — ^love  me — any  more — and  I'm  lonely!" 

"It  isn't  true!"  he  declared  violently.  He  was  stag- 
gered by  the  indecency  of  her  words.  Then  he  softened, 
remembering  how  sometimes  she  had  tried  to  please  him, 
— how  she  had  cried  once  when  he  had  been  angry  with 
her  for  some  little  thoughtless  repeated  annoyance.  "I 
will  try  to  remember!"  she  had  said. —  "Of  course  I 
love  you,  Magsie.  Something 's  the  matter  with  you  that 
you  imagine  things  like  that.  Of  course  I  love  you  as 
much  as  ever ! ' ' 


128  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"No,  you  don't." 

"Oh, — and  since  when?" 

*  *  I  don 't  know. ' '  Her  blue  eyes  had  a  curious  strained 
wide  look.  "But  these  last  days  I've  been  sure — ever 
since — ever  since — " 

"Well,  ever  since  what?" 

"Since  I've  known  I'm  going  to  have  a  baby! 
There ! ' '     She  turned  from  him  again. 

"Good  Lord!    Now!" 

"Are  you  glad?"  She  hardly  heard  him:  she  asked 
the  question  with  which  she  was  prepared. 

"Yes;  yes,  of  course  I'm  glad —  Give  me  a  kiss, 
Magsie,"  he  said  in  a  false  voice. 

He  was  bewildered,  divided  between  what  he  felt  and 
what  he  thought  he  ought  to  feel:  tortured  by  the  divi- 
sion, and  by  the  emergence  of  this  new  thing  upon  the 
field  held  by  his  other  experiences.  This  new  thing  was 
dashingly  there ;  it  didn  't  fit  in ;  he  couldn  't  place  it. 

"I  can't  reach  you,"  he  went  on.  "I'm  in  pain,  you 
know.  Oh — curse  it!  Of  course  I'm  glad.  I  hope  it 
will  be  a  girl." 

"Why?" 

"Because  men — oh,  well,  I  think  there's  something 
wrong  with  men.  There's  something  wrong  with  me,  I 
know." 

"7'm  glad.  I  shall  have  it,  anyhow."  She  spoke 
with  a  hectic  feeble  savageness:  he  found  it  more  and 
more  impossible  to  understand  either  the  event  or  her. 
''You  wouldn't  like  it,  you  know  you  wouldn't.  Oh,  it 
isn't  fair!" 

"Like  what?"  He  groaned  with  the  pain  of  his  hurt 
shoulder.  "I  say,"  he  went  on,  as  she  didn't  answer, 
"couldn't  you  get  me  some  kind  of  a  sleeping-draught? 


A  CHASTE  MAN  129 

It  hurts  like  fury,  really  it  does.  We'll  have  a  talk 
about  everything  later  on.  I  can't  now.  I  don't  see 
why  you — "  He  pulled  himself  up:  "But  I  mustn't 
blame  her,"  he  thought,  with  a  petty  access  of  scruple. 
"This  really  isn't  quite  the  time,  you  know,"  he  for- 
bearingly  added. 

"Oh,  but  it  has  to  do  with  it!    It's  all  the  same." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"I  mean  your  getting  hurt — ^your  getting  into  this 
row.  You  wouldn't  have,  if  there  hadn't  been  some- 
thing else, — something — ' ' 

* '  Oh,  come  now,  Magsie,  that 's  absurd ! ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  silly  of  me  to  say  it,  but  it's  true, 
all  the  same!" 

"Magsie,  dear,  do  be  a  good  girl —  What  pretty 
stockings  you  've  got  on  I " 

She  drew  her  skirt  down  with  the  same  defensive  move- 
ment that  she  had  used  before. 

* '  It  doesn  't  matter !     That  doesn  't  matter  any  more ! ' ' 

* '  Oh,  my  dear  child ! "  He  didn  't  know  what  to  say. 
He  lay  there  inert  and  exposed:  behind  his  temples  he 
was  all  burning  and  confused. 

"Suppose  the  baby  doesn't  make  any  difference.  I 
don't  feel  it  will  make  any.  It's  all  funny  and  differ- 
ent, but  it 's  not  what  I  thought —  You  thought  I  didn 't 
love  you,  Doll,  because  I  didn't — because  I  didn't  show 
it  so  much  in  that  way.  I  couldn't  help  it — ^you  know 
people  can't  help  how  they  are. —  You  didn't  under- 
stand.   You  didn't  try  to — you  weren't  very  jealous." 

"'Jealous'?" 

"I  didn't  mean  'jealous,'  I  meant  'generous.'  I  sup- 
pose I  said  'jealous'  because  that  was  what  I  was  think- 
ing,— only  I'm  jealous,  not  you.    I  wish  you  were!" 


130  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  any  more  now!  I  can't, 
really—!" 

"It's  only  because  I  wanted  to  tell  the  truth."  She 
got  up.  She  was  much  calmer.  She  looked  old,  all  her 
blondeness  seemed  faded.  ' '  I  couldn  't  stand  not  saying 
anything,  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  "When  I  saw 
you  like  that,  I  felt  I  had  to —  It  was  inconsiderate,  I 
know,  but  I  had  to.  It  didn't  seem  right  to  the  child 
to  keep  it  all  there  shut  up  with  him.  And  I  mightn't 
ever  have  told  you,  if  I  hadn't  now.  It  was  awful  at 
Malstowe."  The  words  seemed  to  drag  through  her; 
she  stood  there  looking  in  some  sort  violated,  as  though 
her  conventions,  her  domesticity,  had  been  raped.  She 
seemed  improperly  stripped.  Lawrance  was  sorry  for 
her,  but  resentful  of  her  still.  Grief  and  unrest  did  not 
harmonize  with  her  aspect :  they  ruthlessly  scattered  her 
pretty  flaxens  and  pinks  and  blues,  tarnished  them  and 
left  them  sordid.  Her  emotions  put  her  physically  in 
the  wrong.  They  gave  her  features  an  accent  that  was 
harsh  and  thin.  "I  did  try  to  be  what  you  would  like, 
but  it  wasn't  any  good, — though  I  was  nice  to  your 
mother  and  everybody,  wasn  't  I,  Doll  ?  And  all  the  time 
I  was  so  dreadfully  jealous — jealous  of  that  girl.  I 
knew  you  were  always  thinking  about  her.  It  wasn't 
right  to  be  as  jealous  as  I  was.  I  was  all  ugly  inside 
with  jealousy.  It  was  terrible.  And  I'm  jealous  still, 
just  the  same.  I  was  even  jealous  of  Mary, — in  a  differ- 
ent way.  Well,  when  we  were  at  Malstowe — "  She 
went  rapidly  on,  in  a  tone  that  was  painful  in  agitation 
instead  of  being  painful  in  slowness.  "When  we  were 
there  I  wrote  to  Father,  all  about  it.  It  was  a  horrid 
letter;  it  wasn't  what  I  felt  at  all.    I  couldn't  write  as 


A  CHASTE  MAN  131 

I  felt.    I  'm  ashamed.    I  have  to  tell  you — and  I  '11  never 
do  that  again!    And  then  I — " 

She  broke  off  and  went  instantly  out,  leaving  Law- 
rance  in  a  morass  of  unintelligibility.  He  turned  over 
painfully  and  groaned.  ' '  What  can  I  do  ? "  he  thought. 
* 'I  can't  do  anything."  And  then:  "  I  must  go  away : 
I  must  clear  out,  somehow."  He  was  utterly  baffled  by 
his  wife  being  new  in  this  way,  by  her  being  another 
person.  If  only  he  could  escape,  somehow !  His  imagi- 
nation could  not  at  all  reach  to  the  child  that  was  com- 
ing. He  forced  himself  to  think  of  the  child,  but  there 
was  no  meaning  in  his  thoughts.  It  should  have  made 
some  difference,  but  it  hadn  't.  The  room  grew  suddenly 
dim ;  he  swam  in  that  feverous  dimness,  and  was  effaced. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LAWRANCE'S  night  was  broken  by  wakefulness 
and  pain  and  dreams.  He  dreamed  that  he  was 
walking  along  a  wide  street,  a  street  with  a 
smooth  jet-black  pavement  and  a  grey  smooth  asphalt 
road.  No  one  else  was  there;  on  either  side  there  was 
a  high  grey  wall,  beyond  which  nothing  could  be  seen: 
wall  and  street  stretched  on  into  a  darkness  that  receded 
by  arbitrary  little  strokes,  irregularly  as  he  advanced. 
Everything  was  in  a  half-light ;  he  was  walking  rapidly, 
feeling  that  he  would  be  stopped,  as,  suddenly,  he  was, 
but  not  by  any  person.  A  thick  rope-like  substance  was 
coiling  itself  round  his  head  and  shoulders,  keeping  him 
back:  he  was  held  fast,  thickly  and  heavily,  about  his 
mouth  and  his  eyes ;  his  shoulder  would  not  move ;  it  was 
enormously  weighted  down  by  the  coils  that  seemed  to 
grow  out  of  it.  A  creature  with  a  man 's  face  and  a  dark- 
blue  hairy  body  fell  on  his  head :  he  was  on  the  ground, 
and  the  ground  was  loosened  and  brittle  with  heat;  he 
felt  he  must  fall  through  it  under  this  fierce  pressure 
from  above.  The  creature's  face  was  white-fleshed  and 
loose,  full  of  evil  for  him :  he  tried  to  cry  * '  Go  away ! ' ' 
but  his  mouth  was  so  huge  and  heavy  he  could  not  open 
it.  The  ground  dropped  beneath  him,  and  he  clung  to 
the  hairy  body,  which  slipped  from  him,  while  the  white 
face  turned  to  a  fist  which  waved  round  him  and  then 
melted.    Again  the  street  was  there,  but  it  was  narrow 

132 


A  CHASTE  MAN  133 

now ;  he  felt  wedged  in  it.  His  body  was  puffed  out  into 
monstrous  jutting  ridges.  Letty  stood  poised  before 
him ;  she  laughed  and  stretched  out  her  hand,  which  he 
tried  to  take,  but  she  too  slipped  from  him.  He  saw  her 
on  a  narrow  ledge,  dancing  along  it.  Muriel  came  from 
behind,  with  a  doll  which  she  held  out  in  front  of  her :  she 
dropped  it  and  picked  it  up  and  dropped  it  again.  Then 
it  was  not  a  doll,  but  a  drawing  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
which  fluttered  over  his  head  and  disappeared.  Muriel 
turned  away.  The  street  widened  again ;  Olga  was  there 
far  on  the  other  side,  moving  slowly.  She  seemed  to 
pass  through  Muriel,  who  was  at  once  obliterated;  then, 
still  slowly  moving  on,  she  looked  at  Lawrance.  Her 
face  was  suddenly  near  him ;  he  tried  to  touch  her ;  then 
she  was  far  off.  He  felt  himself  dragged  away  from  her, 
all  the  bulk  about  him  became  heavily  but  irresistibly 
motive;  he  was  dragged  on,  pressing  against  the  wall 
that  hurt  him.  Olga,  all  in  white,  passed  backwards 
and  forwards,  still  slowly,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wid- 
ened street.  Her  face  was  turned  from  him.  His  drag- 
ging motion  ceased ;  he  felt  an  expansion  and  a  breaking 
up  of  his  knotted  ridges.  He  had  to  go  on  quickly;  he 
would  be  too  late.  He  must  be  in  time.  Olga  was  in 
front  of  him  now ;  she  was  crossing  water  that  he  thirsted 
for ;  she  was  in  a  single  garment  of  white,  blowing  about 
above  her  knees.  Muriel  was  with  her,  holding  the 
girl's  hands  and  crying.  He  wanted  to  see  Olga's  face, 
but  he  couldn't:  and  the  bare  knees  seemed  not  to  be 
Olga's,  but  Muriel's.  He  must  go  on  to  her  quickly. 
He  was  nearer;  he  struggled  to  reach  her;  his  anxiety 
was  maddening.  Muriel  had  released  Olga;  Olga  was 
nearer  to  him.  He  strained  on  in  a  treble  agony  of  de- 
sire and  pain  and  fear.    Then  she  was  in  his  arms  and 


134  A  CHASTE  MAN 

pressed  to  him.  He  held  her  in  doubtful  joy,  joy  shot 
through  with  physical  pain  and  the  anxiety  that  still  tor- 
mentingly  teased  his  blood :  her  hand  drove  his  shoulder 
fiercely, — drove  into  the  bone, — her  childlike  slendemess 
was  attenuated,  and  quivered  through  him.  He  woke  in 
an  ecstasy  that  was  immediately  followed  by  a  wakeful 
shame.  His  shoulder  hurt  him  ferociously ;  the  compress 
had  slipped  from  it.  He  was  parched,  and  reached  out 
for  the  barley-water  by  his  side.  He  drank  in  great 
gulps. 

Later  he  slept  again,  with  dreams  more  incoherent, 
and  twice  he  woke  after  dropping  down  and  down 
through  blackness.  At  about  seven  o'clock  he  woke 
finally,  with  a  sense  of  freshness  and  relief :  the  hot  tide 
seemed  to  have  drawn  back  from  him.  He  felt  an  agree- 
able desire  for  food,  and  ate  with  an  almost  happy  greed 
of  the  bread-and-milk  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  touch 
overnight.  He  began  to  dress  himself,  with  a  determi- 
nation that  his  body  resisted;  he  was  stiffer  than  ever. 
Several  times  he  sat  down,  weak  with  pain,  and  his  shoul- 
der hindered  him.  He  looked  at  his  face,  with  the  oily 
lint  bandage  that  had  slipped  to  the  side  of  his  eye;  he 
observed  his  plastered  and  swollen  mouth  and  the  rich 
dark  colour  of  his  bruised  cheek.  He  sat  in  a  chair, 
with  a  hand-glass.  His  face  was  like  a  dirty  yellow 
cloth,  claret-stained:  perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to 
go  to  the  Office  for  a  day  or  two.  He  must  have  some- 
thing to  eat. 

He  went  downstairs.  The  post  had  come:  there  was 
a  letter  for  Muriel  from  her  father,  and  a  letter  for  him 
from  Lord  Burpham ;  he  opened  this  at  once.  It  was  an 
invitation  to  him  to  "run  down  with  his  sister"  to  Lip- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  185 

scot  on  the  following  Saturday.  * '  My  cousin  Crockerton 
Deavitt  will  be  there  then.  ...  I  hope  your  sister  is  by 
now  quite  well  enough  to  come.  ..." 

Lawrance  looked  at  the  other  envelope:  he  wondered 
if  Muriel  would  show  him  her  father's  letter.  He  won- 
dered if  he  would  show  Lord  Burpham's  letter  to  her. 
Why  should  he,  though?  Of  course  he  couldn't  go  to 
Lipscot  with  Olga.  The  thing  was  impossible.  Suppose 
Olga  had  been  his  wife,  though :  how  different  everything 
would  be  then!  You  had  only  one  life;  why  wasn't  it 
possible  to  strike  out  and  make  it  what  you  wished? 
He  was  in  some  way  fatally  weak,  that  was  the  real 
truth:  he  had  never  directed  his  determination;  he  had 
chopped  it  up  and  wasted  it  over  little  things, — ^little 
things  like  giving  up  smoking  and  not  reading  late  in 
bed.  He- 
Mary  came  in  to  set  the  table  for  breakfast.  She  was 
shy  and  repressed. 

"I  hope  you're  feeling  better,  sir." 
Lawrance,  as  she  spoke,  wondered  why  she  was  shy, 
then  he  remembered.  He  told  her  yes,  but  he  was  hun- 
gry. Would  she  get  him  some  bacon  at  once,  and  some 
tea? —  He  felt  that  he  must  have  great  draughts  of 
weak  tea. 

The  girl  went,  and  Lawrance  sat  down  at  the  table :  he 
sat  down  heavily;  he  was  still  rather  bewildered.  He 
supposed  he  ought  not  to  have  taken  Mary's  hand  like 
that :  no,  it  was  not  the  right  thing  to  have  done.  Every- 
thing was  against  it:  why  had  he?  And  Muriel  was 
going  to  have  a  child.  Mary  was  their  servant;  she 
evidently  was  concerned  by  his  having  held  her  hand. 
It  meant  something  to  her.     He  thought,  for  a  moment, 


136  A  CHASTE  MAN 

vividly,  of  her  cap  and  apron  ...  a  servant  ...  he 
felt  uncomfortable.  It  seemed  that  there  was  something 
in  him  that  made  him  behave  like  a  cad.  .  .  . 

He  had  just  begun  his  bacon,  when  Muriel  appeared. 
She  came  and  kissed  him,  with  uneasy  gaiety.  "I  can 
hardly  find  a  place  to  kiss ! ' '  she  cried.  ' '  I  must  freshen 
those  bandages.  You  do  look  better,  though.  Hun- 
gry?" 

*'Yes,  awfully.     I'm  all  right  now." 

"You  won't  go  to  the  Office  to-day,  though,  will  you? 
What  kind  of  a  night  did  you  have  ? ' ' 

''Pretty  fair.  A  bit  of  fever,  I  should  think.  Dreamt 
a  lot —  No,  I  shan't  go  to  the  Office.  "Wish  I  could  do 
something  to  change  my  looks  quickly —  It's  beastly, 
isn't  it?" 

" It  must  be  for  you.  I  don't  mind  it —  Oh,  there's  a 
letter  from  Father."  She  flushed,  and  they  were  both 
silent. 

"You  might  read  it  to  me,"  he  said  at  last,  deliber- 
ately. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  it's  not  interesting.  You  know  what 
Father's  letters  are !"  Her  evasion  was  so  inexpert  that 
he  was  sorry  for  her.  Curious,  he  reflected,  how  very 
often  he  had  been  sorry  for  her  these  last  few  weeks. 
"You've  got  a  letter,  too,"  she  went  on  hurriedly;  "is 
that  interesting?" 

Lawrance  had  unintentionally  left  his  letter  on  the 
table.    Mary  had  put  it  out  of  his  mind. 

*  *  Not  very  interesting, ' '  he  said,  but  in  the  pause  that 
followed  he  made  up  his  mind,  with  all  the  determina- 
tion that  he  had  been  accusing  himself  of  wasting  on 
trifles,  not  to  take  his  cue  from  her.     She  had  evaded 


A  CHASTE  MAN  137 

and  withheld,  he  would  not.  ''It's  from  Lord  Bur- 
pham,"  he  added,  knowing  that  this  would  pique  her 
'curiosity. 

"  Oh !  on  business  ? ' ' 

"No,  it  isn't  a  business  letter." 

"Oh,  I  thought  your  relations  with  Lord  Burpham 
were  purely  business  ones.    You  always  told  me — " 

He  had  always  told  her  so: —  "Oughtn't  I  to  know 
Lord  Burpham,  if  you  do?" —  "My  dear  girl,  I'm 
purely  on  a  business  footing  with  him. ' '  Or,  if  he  were 
annoyed :  ' '  You  don 't  expect  me  to  ask  him  to  dinner, 
do  you?"  She  had  never  accepted  this:  she  always 
thought,  and  let  him  see  that  she  thought,  that  he  might 
have  managed  things  somehow,  that  other  men  would 
have.  It  was  a  sore  point  with  her.  "I  used  to  meet 
lots  of  people  of  that  sort  at  home!"  she  had  said. 
Lawrance  knew  that  she  would  be  bitterly  chagrined 
about  that  letter,  but  it  was  inevitable  now  that  she 
should  read  it. 

"Lord  Burpham 's  written  to  me  on  a  misunderstand- 
ing," he  said.     "Bead  it." 

She  did,  and  looked  extremely  puzzled  and  vexed. 

* '  He  oughtn  't  to  ask  you  and  Letty  without  me !  It 
isn't — it  isn't  well-bred!" 

"Oh,  Lord  Burpham 's  breeding  is  all  right.  He 
doesn't  know  I'm  married;  he  doesn't  realize  it,  any- 
how." 

"What,  you  haven't  even  told  him!" 

' '  No,  there  hasn  't  been  any  occasion.  Inge  or  Ralston 
may  have — I  don't  know.  But,  anyhow,  he's  evidently 
forgotten.     Of  course  I'm  not  going." 

"He  didn't  forget  you  had  a  sister.    You  must  havQ 


138  A  CHASTE  MAN 

told  him  that. —  He's  a  widower,  isn't  he?"  she  added, 
as  though  that  made  the  matter  rather  less  of  an  offence 
to  her. 

'*Yes." 

"If  there 'd  been  a  Lady  Burpham,  she'd  never  have 
let  him  write  like  that,  without  making  sure.  She'd 
know  how  a  woman  would  feel —  Why,  it's  a  regular 
slap  in  the  face ! ' ' 

"Oh,  he  didn't  mean  it  to  be,  not  in  the  least." 

*  *  How  are  you  going  to  answer  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know —    I  can  easily  put  him  off." 
"But,   Doll   dear,   you   can't   just   put   him   off.    It 
wouldn't  be  dignified;  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  me. —    I 
know  what  it  is ;  you  don 't  want  me  to  come  with  you ! 
You  think  I — "     She  broke  off,  very  much  agitated. 
"Well,  what  do  you  think  I  ought  to  write?" 

*  *  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  known ! '  * 
"Well,  how  would  you  put  it?    You  understand  these 

things  better  than  I  do."  He  was  gaining  time,  think- 
ing how  he  should  tell  her  about  his  ' '  sister ' '  when  from 
her  present  preoccupation  she  came  to  that  point. 

"Oh,  you  can  easily  put  it  quite  simply  and  naturally 
— in  a  dignified  friendly  way. —  'Many  thanks  for  your 
kind  invitation' — of  course  you'd  begin  like  that — 'which 
was  evidently  given  under  a — a  misapprehension.'  " 
She  spoke  in  a  little  pedantic  voice.  "  'Which  I  am 
quite  sure  was  given  under  a  misapprehension' — ^that's 
better. —    'I  should  have  told  you  that  I  am  married.'  " 

"That  sounds — ^well,  it  sounds  rather  silly.  Why 
should  I  have  told  him  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I  think  any  one  else  would  have!" 

"Why?  I've  hardly  ever  seen  Lord  Burpham  except 
at  the  Office," 


A  CHASTE  MAN  139 

"But  why  did  you  tell  him  about  Letty,  then?  Does 
he  know  Letty  ? ' ' 

**No,  he  doesn't  know  Letty.  I  took  Olga  Flynn  to 
the  'Trafalgar'  for  her  birthday  the  other  night,  and 
we  met  Lord  Burpham  there  by  chance.  I  introduced 
her  as  my  sister. ' ' 

**0h,  how  horrid  of  you!"  Her  voice  sounded 
sharply,  at  a  high  nervous  angry  pitch.  She  was 
flushed,  and  her  light  eyes  shone  in  contraction. 

''I  don't  defend  myself." 

"Well,  it  shows  you  were  ashamed  of  being  with 
her!" 

"Not  exactly.  It  shows  I  was  ashamed  of  what  he 
might  think. ' ' 

'  *  You  oughtn  't  to  have  taken  her,  Oliver !  It  wasn  't 
fair  .  .  .  and  I  can't  believe  that  Lord  Burpham  asked 
a  girl  like  that  to  come  to  Lipscot — " 

' '  Obviously  he  has.    He  rather  liked  her. ' ' 

"And  you  could  take  her!" 

"  I  've  told  you  I  'm  not  going —  What 's  the  matter  ? ' ' 
She  had  turned  suddenly  pale,  her  mouth  was  drawn  and 
weak. 

"I  don't  feel  well!" 

'  *  Take  some  hot  tea —    Here. ' ' 

"I  can't  touch  anything."  She  pushed  the  cup  peev- 
ishly.    "  It 's  not  right,  the  way  you  treat  me ! " 

"I  haven't  seen  the  Flynns  since  Olga's  birthday." 

"You're  always  doing  things  for  them !  Getting  them 
money  for  silly  things  about  seeing  ghosts ! —  Doll,  will 
you  promise  me  you  won't  see  them  again?"  She  spoke 
with  a  sick  frightened  rush. 

"I  can't  promise  that." 

"You're  fond  of  that  girl,  I  know  you  are!    You're 


140  A  CHASTE  MAN 

fond  of  her  in  a  horrid  way !  You  'd  never  have  said  she 
was  your  sister,  if  you  hadn  't  had  a  guilty  conscience ! ' ' 
She  began  to  cry.  "You've  been  making  love  to  her, 
haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes:  once  I  did." 

* '  I  knew  that  was  the  kind  of  girl  she  was ! ' ' 

"She  isn't  that  kind  of  girl!"  He  spoke  now  with 
animation,  and  Muriel  suffered  her  bitterest  shock. 
"She's  absolutely  innocent!"  he  added  with  dangerous 
emphasis. 

' '  Innocent !  When  she  lets  ■  you  make  love  to  her ! 
Oh,  don't  look  at  me  in  that  way!"  She  hid  her  face. 
"I'm  so  ill  and  sick  and  miserable  with  it  all!"  She 
rose,  turned  quickly  away  from  him. 

"Muriel!  I'm  awfully  sorry,  I  am  really —  Don't 
go." 

* '  I  must.     Suppose  Mary  should  come  in. ' ' 

He  got  up  and  went  to  her.     "Look  here,  Muriel — " 

' '  Don 't  look  at  me !  I  can 't  stand  it ! "  She  trembled. 
She  suffered  again  from  the  violation  of  her  reserve, 
suffered  from  being  stripped  and  shown.  The  very 
strength  of  her  feeling  humiliated  her. 

"Look  here,  my  dear  girl,  I  don't  want  this,  I  really 
don't!" 

'  *  But  you  won 't  promise  me ! " 

"You  know  I  can't  drop  the  Flynns. —  Don't  let's  go 
all  over  that  again. ' ' 

"You  do  everything  for  them — that  thing  in  your 
paper  about  the  'Elementals' — just  to  get  them  money 
— all  because  of  that  girl — " 

"It's  not.     I'm  friends  with  all  of  them — " 

"Well,  will  you  promise  not  to  make  love  to  her — ?" 
He  was  silent,  and  she  went  on  with  a  pitiful  weak 


A  CHASTE  MAN  141 

energy:  "I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  promise.  It 
isn't  much  to  ask.  You  might — ^you  don't  know  how 
much  it  means  to  me.  It's  all  so  shameful."  She  put 
out  her  arms  to  him  with  a  pretty,  timid  gesture :  her 
head  was  on  his  shoulder,  he  stood  in  passive  resentment 
of  the  prompted  embrace.  "Oh,  Doll,  I  should  have 
thought  that  what  I  told  you  last  night  might  have  made 
some  difference.  I  suppose  I'm  getting  old  and  ugly — 
but  I  do  love  you — you  don't  know!  It's  awfully 
hard—" 

Lawrance  was  acutely  uncomfortable,  and  indignant. 
He  felt  he  was  being  tricked,  but  he  could  not  answer 
according  to  his  feeling.  For  one  thing,  he  had  strongly 
the  sense  of  her  being  propped  by  a  support  that  he  could 
not  undermine  or  defy:  for  another,  he  was  sure  that 
there  was  no  blame  to  her  here  personally,  he  saw  the 
futility  of  holding  her  to  any  account.  Their  living  to- 
gether, it  was  that  that  was  wrong,  but  yet  inevitable,  so 
far  as  any  power  of  his  went.     He  caught  his  breath. 

* '  Oh,  his  poor  shoulder ! ' '     She  released  him. 

"No,  it's  the  other  one —  Well,  all  right,  I  promise 
you."  He  went  back  to  the  table  and  continued  to  eat 
his  bacon. 

She  did  her  best  ih  the  look  of  gratitude  she  gave  him, 
the  look  he  did  not  see.  Embarrassed  by  the  difficulty  of 
taking  the  right  tone  after  his  capitulation,  she  sat  down 
and  began  sipping  her  tea. 

* '  How  does  he  sign  himself  ? ' '  she  said,  with  a  domestic 
brightness,  looking  at  Lord  Burpham's  letter.  "What 
a  funny  slopey  hand !  Is  that  a  '  J '  ? "  She  pushed  the 
sheet  over  to  him. 

"No,  that's  the  loop  of  the  *B.'  He  signs  himself 
simply  'Burpham.'    They  always  do,  you  know." 


142  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"  She  gave  a  little  playful  laugh. 
"You  think  I  don't  know  anything!"  She  played  list- 
lessly with  a  piece  of  dry  toast,  hoping  he  would  notice 
her.  "I'm  so  glad  you're  making  a  good  breakfast, 
dear,"  she  said.     "A  penny  for  your  thoughts!" 

"They  aren't  worth  it." 

The  dulness  of  his  answer  oppressed  him :  and  his  re- 
flection that  Olga  could  never  have  said  anything  like 
that  "Penny  for  your  thoughts!"  oppressed  him  too — 
made  him  feel  peculiarly  bound.  What  had  been  in  his 
mind  when  Muriel  thus  challenged  him  with  the  am- 
icable commonplace  that  she  could  not  possibly  help,  was 
the  obvious  and  futile  rejoinder  to  her  "Oh,  I  know 
that!":  "Why  did  you  ask  if  the  letter  was  a  'J,' 
then?"  It  was  appalling,  the  gross  dulness  of  the  an- 
swers she  suggested :  spoken,  or  in  his  mind,  their  clog- 
ging weight  on  him  was  equal.  Why  should  they  have  to 
live  together?  He  could  not  help  angrily  feeling  that 
it  was  not  right  to  put  the  enormous  strain  of  constant 
familiarity  upon  any  affection,  any  passion.  Yet  it  was 
always  done — it  must  be  the  only  way.  Anyhow,  she 
would  never  let  him  go.  His  whole  being  ached  with 
her  tenacity  of  him. 

"You  ought  to  eat  something  more."  He  said  what 
she  wanted  him  to  say,  at  last. 

' '  I  can 't,  dear. ' '  She  charged  the  words  with  a  mean- 
ing modesty.  "It's  no  good  trying,  you  know. — 
Hadn't  you  better  telephone  to  the  Office?" 

"Oh,  I'm  going." 

' '  What  ?    Oh,  Doll,  you  aren  't  fit  to  go— really ! ' ' 

"I  feel  all  right.     I  want  to  go." 

They  both  got  up.    She  hesitated,  but  having  won 


A  CHASTE  MAN  143 

his  promise,  she  was  free  to  follow  her  instinct  not  to 
thwart  him. 

"  I  '11  freshen  your  bandages,  then,  and  make  you  more 
presentable. ' ' 

''All  right.  Thank  you.  I  haven't  much  time, 
though." 

He  was  near  real  hatred  of  her  now:  nearer  than  he 
had  ever  been  before.  The  promise  that  she  had  made 
him  give  ate  steadily  into  him.  He  did  not  allow  him- 
self to  count  it  against  her,  but  he  would  not  force  his 
will,  to  forgive  her,  and  he  would  not  force  his  prin- 
ciples, to  forgive  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SOME  days  later,  when  his  cuts  and  bruises  were  no 
longer  so  impertinent  to  him,  when  it  was  he 
himself,  rather  than  they,  who  appeared  in  his 
face,  Lawrance  visited  the  Flynns.  He  had  told  Muriel 
he  was  going,  and  she  accepted  the  fact  with  a  certain 
embarrassment,  a  trifle  of  awkwardness.  There  was 
something  rather  disingenuous  in  her  artificially  bright : 
'  *  Oh,  well  then,  I  shall  have  high  tea,  and  Mary  can  take 
the  evening ! "  No  allusion  had  been  made  to  that  prom- 
ise since  its  extortion.  Muriel  had  been  sedulously  at- 
tentive to  her  husband's  hurts:  compresses  and  rubbings 
with  embrocation  bore  her  nightly  witness.  Lawrance 
wondered  occasionally  how  it  was  possible  for  two  peo- 
ple to  live  so  intimately  together,  and  yet  not  once  to  ex- 
change any  word  or  any  emotion  of  the  least  importance. 
At  any  rate  they  had  sometimes  before  exchanged  emo- 
tions, if  never  ideas.  But  Muriel  was  doing  her  best — 
again  she  was  '  *  trying. ' '  She  had  been  equally  sedulous 
in  her  sympathy  over  the  letters  that  came  from  Mal- 
stowe,  neutral  and  uninformative  though  those  letters 
invariably  were.  Lawrance  thought  forbiddenly  of  Olga, 
of  how  differently  she  would  take  him  if  they  were  mar- 
ried— but  if  it  came  to  ideas,  what,  after  all,  he  reflected, 
had  he  to  give  her  ?  He  was  conscious  of  complete  intel- 
lectual sterility;  no  wonder  he  couldn't  satisfy  Olga's 
ui^ent  young  mind,  no  wonder  Olga  didn't  love  him !    If 

144 


A  CHASTE  MAN  145 

she  did,  he  averred  fiercely,  he  would  never  have  given 
that  promise,  it  would  have  been  disloyalty,  it  would 
have  been  vile:  but  as  it  was,  he  had  only  enacted  a 
penalty  for  himself. 

He  was  going  over  this  ground  again  on  his  way  from 
the  Office  to  the  Glasden  Road.  His  meditations  were 
always  recurrent,  and  in  their  recurrence  they  hardly 
varied  at  all. 

This  time  Marjorie  did  not  run  out  to  meet  him.  He 
heard  her  shrill  little  voice,  pitched  to  a  tone  of  delighted 
excitement,  as  he  opened  the  gate:  "Oh,  Mr.  Deavitt! 
Don't,  Mr.  2>eavitt!"  Lawrance  felt  annoyed  with  the 
little  girl's  preoccupation.  He  would  have  liked  her  to 
have  come  out  to  meet  him.  That  would  have  made  it 
easier.  His  heart  beat  violently,  seeming  hostile  to  him. 
He  had  anticipations  of  evil:  there  was  no  poetic  surge 
of  pain  and  passion  to  carry  him  on.  As  he  entered,  the 
nonchalantly  sordid  house  did  not  reassure  him. 

Doris  opened  the  door.  ' '  Oh,  Mr.  Lawrance, ' '  she  said 
affectedly,  ''you're  quite  a  stranger!"  She  looked  over- 
worked; kitchen  worries  seemed  to  hang  about  her. 
"Had  a  good  time  in  the  country?"  She  put  on,  as 
usual,  her  Society  air.  She  looked  at  him  curiously,  no- 
ticing the  traces  of  his  bruises.  "Mr.  Deavitt's  here, 
playing  about  with  Marjorie.     He's  daft  on  that  kid." 

* '  Now  then,  Margarine,  if  you  can 't  behave  better  than 
that,  you  'd  better  not  behave  at  all ! "  came  Mr.  Deavitt  's 
voice  from  the  dining  room. 

* '  Oo-er !  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Deavitt !  I  must  go  and  say 
how  d  'ye  do  to  uncle  Lorrie ! ' ' 

"Don't  trouble,  Marjorie,"  Lawrance  called  to  her. 
"You'll  see  me  soon  enough.  Where  are  the  others, 
Doris?" 


146  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Mother  isn't  very  well.  Uncle  Tofty's  been  awful 
lately.  Mother's  been  in  bed  to  get  out  of  his  way,  I 
think, ' '  the  girl  whispered.  "  I  've  had  all  the  work  here 
to  do  as  well  as  my  work  at  the  'Tivoli.'  I  haven't 
hardly  been  out  of  the  blessed  house  the  whole  week,  ex- 
cept—" 

"Well,  I  never!"  Mr.  Crockerton  Deavitt  suddenly 
appeared  by  them,  with  Marjorie  seated  on  his  neck, 
her  thin  legs  dangling  over  his  shoulders.  "Well,  I 
never !  Here 's  the  gentleman  what 's  come  to  see  Pappa 
about  the  kitchen  sink!"  Changing  his  tone,  he  ad- 
dressed Lawrance.  "I've  seen  you  down  at  Ralston  & 
Inge's,  haven't  I?" 

They  shook  hands,  and  Marjorie  nearly  upset  herself 
in  her  effort  to  kiss  Lawrance  from  her  eminence. 

"Bad  dog!"  cried  Mr.  Deavitt.  "Don't  do  that,  or  I 
shall  be  jellyhouse!" 

Lawrance  recognized  that  Deavitt  was  right.  He  had 
seen  him  at  the  Office  once,  and  the  man 's  appearance  was 
not  easily  forgotten.  He  had  a  slight  figure  and  a 
rather  small  head,  but  his  expanded  active  blue  eyes  and 
heavy  light-yellow  moustache  were  conspicuous  features. 

' '  Of  course  you  know  old  '  Israf el, ' — Titmarsh.  They 
live  just  round  the  comer  here." 

"Old  Israf  el's  got  six  little  girls!"  Marjorie  shouted. 
"Mr.  Deavitt 's  an  awful  flirt!  He's  been  there  this 
afternoon,  and  then  he  comes  to  see  me.  I  like  that, 
uncle  Lorrie,  don 't  you  ?  Mr.  Deavitt  says  I  'm  number 
fifty-three.     Cheek,  I  call  it!" 

*  *  Such  language !    My  word ! ' ' 

"Well,  you  said  it  first.  Uncle  Lorrie,  you've  got  a 
black  eye ! ' ' 

"Ssh!"  Mr.  Deavitt  affected  profound  gravity,  and 


A  CHASTE  MAN  147 

held  up  his  hand  to  his  mouth.  "Scrapping  with  the 
missus.  They  all  do  it,  you  know.  What  a  life!  But 
they  get  a  half-day  off  now  and  again,  pore  fellers. 
Keep  qui-ert,  Fido ! ' '  Mar jorie  was  wriggling  her  lean 
little  legs,  now  tightly  encased  in  a  stout  new  pair  of 
brown  stockings. 

"Oh,  Marjie,  you  are  tiresome!"  Doris  put  in  peev- 
ishly. 

"I've  heard  of  you  from  Lord  Burpham."  Mr. 
Deavitt  again  addressed  Lawrance  with  the  surprising 
alternation  of  a  tone  of  polite  and  affable  acquaintance. 
"Quite  interesting  those  alterations  he's  been  making 
down  at  Lipscot,  aren't  they?  We  must  have  a  talk 
about  them  some  time.  Wo-ah,  Mar  jorie!  No,  please 
sir,  if  it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  sir, ' '  he  went  on  in  falsetto, 
"gran 'ma  says  will  you  come  and  do  the  plumbing  next 
Thursday,  coz  Mamah's  out  charring,  and  Fapah's  gone 
round  the  corner  to  have  his  tooth  out,  and  our  old  cat's 
got  kittens,  and  little  brother  Archibald's  fallen  down- 
stairs and  broken  his  epigastrium.  That  will  be  all  for 
the  present,  thank  you ! ' ' 

Doris  turned  away  with  a  disdainful  air.  Marjorie, 
screaming  with  nervous  laughter,  gasped  out :  * '  Oh,  Mr. 
Deavitt,  you  are  silly ! ' ' 

* '  Don 't  Mansion-House  it ! " 

"Oh,  you're  pricking!" 

"Nortiboy."  Mr.  Deavitt  slapped  his  own  hand. 
"My  mistake.  Show  the  gentleman  in,  Ermyntrude," 
he  addressed  Doris;  "don't  keep  him  lying  out  there  on 
the  doormat !     Such  manners ! ' ' 

Doris  elaborately  took  no  notice.  "Won't  you  come 
and  talk  to  us  in  the  kitchen,  Mr.  Lawrance?"  she  said. 
"Olga's  there." 


148  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"All  right." 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Deavitt  and  Marjorie  will  be  quite 
happy  together.  They've  got  puzzles  and  things  to 
amuse  them."  The  girl  spoke  vindictively.  "Father 
will  be  back  soon.    We  're  getting  the  tea. ' ' 

* '  By  the  way —  Down,  Fido ! —  Get  down  a  minute, 
Marjorie,  there's  a  good  kid."  Mr.  Deavitt 's  tone  was 
now  alert  and  efficient.  He  took  out  a  little  pocket-diary 
and  referred  to  it.  "I 'm  booked  for  Lipscot  to-morrow 
— 11 :35  train.  I  understood  you  were  coming  with  your 
sister. ' ' 

"Yes,  Lord  Burpham  asked  me — ^but  not  for  to- 
morrow.    Anyhow,  it 's  off. ' ' 

"Oh."  Deavitt  seemed  displeased.  His  tone  was 
cold  and  disappointed.  Lawrance  was  not  aware  of  his 
peculiar  punctilio  about  engagements.  "That's  rather 
odd,  isn't?    I  thought  it  was  all  fixed  up." 

"No.    I  wrote  to  say  I  couldn't  come." 

Lawrance  moved  towards  Doris.  He  was  irked  by  this 
emphasis  of  the  Lipscot  invitation,  though  on  the  whole 
he  had  not  been  at  all  ill-pleased  by  Deavitt 's  being  there, 
and  so  very  definitely  there,  on  that  particular  after- 
noon. Deavitt  represented  a  complete  neutrality,  he  was 
relievingly  dissociated  from  all  Lawrance 's  concerns. — 
That  allusion  to  "the  missus"  and  married  life — it  was 
incomparably  remote.  Besides,  Deavitt  was  easy:  his 
clowning  did  not  in  the  least  irritate  Lawrance,  who 
always  liked  being  with  men  who  took  the  centre  of  the 
stage  and  made  no  call  on  him  for  conversation. 

"Mr.  Deavitt!"  Marjorie  called  from  the  dining- 
room.  ' '  The  little  ball  keeps  on  running  away ;  I  can 't 
make  it  go  properly ! ' ' 

"Your  lady-love  wants  you,  Mr.  Deavitt,"  observed 


A  CHASTE  MAN  149 

Doris  sarcastically.  "Come  along  to  Olga,"  she  whis- 
pered, putting  her  plump  hand  on  Lawrance's  arm. 
' '  Olga  thinks  a  lot  of  you, ' '  she  added  in  a  tone  of  mere- 
tricious confidence  as  she  took  him  away. 

That  allusion  to  Lipscot,  in  making  L^wrance  feel  un- 
comfortable, had  lessened  his  reluctance  to  go  to  the 
kitchen.  Besides,  what  else,  he  thought  as  he  went,  could 
he  do?  He  couldn't  attend  upon  the  innocent  flirtation 
of  Marjorie  and  Mr.  Crockerton  Deavitt. 

"He  doesn't  really  know  that  lord,  does  he?"  asked 
Doris  sceptically. 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  his  cousin." 

Doris  did  not  answer.  She  looked  impressed,  puzzled 
and  annoyed,  at  the  same  time.  She  had  always  con- 
soled herself  by  the  opinion  that  Mr.  Deavitt  was  ex- 
cessively vulgar. 

"Olga  knows  Lord  Burpham,  too,"  Lawrance  added, 
without  weighing  his  words. 

"Oh!  She  never  told  me.  She's  a  sly  one! — Olga! 
Why  didn  't  you  tell  me  you  knew  Lord  Burpham  ? ' ' 

The  girl  started  as  her  sister  burst  in.  Seeing  Law- 
rance, she  gave  him  a  faint  abstracted  smile.  She  was 
sitting  reading  a  paper-covered  book. 

"Well,  why  didn't  you?"  Doris  had  only  paused  for 
a  moment. 

* '  I  thought  you  'd  talk  so  much  about  it. ' ' 

"Talk?  Why  should  I  talk?"  Doris  was  intensely 
angered  by  this  reply,  partly  because  it  was  evidently 
given  without  any  desire  to  score  off  her :  so  she  had  no 
climbing-ground  to  any  point  of  vantage  for  reprisals. 
She  stopped,  she  was  baffled.  Lawrance  had  never  seen 
her  nearly  so  baffled  nor  nearly  so  angry  before.  The 
very  sensible  novelty  of  her  emotions  served  even  to  dis- 


150  A  CHASTE  MAN 

tract  his  attention  from  Olga:  for  a  few  moments  he 
ceased  to  wonder  if  she  would  come  and  kiss  him.  * '  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  ashamed  of  knowing 
— of  knowing — " 

Doris  broke  off.  There  was  humiliation  and  jealousy 
in  her  anger.  Lawrance  was  increasingly  surprised. 
He  couldn't  at  all  understand  it.  Olga  apparently  was 
not  trying  to  understand.  She  went  on  reading  her 
book. 

"Beading!"  cried  her  sister.  "You're  always  read- 
ing. I  have  to  do  everything.  What  do  you  suppose 
we're  going  to  have  for  tea  to-night?" 

"Cold  mutton,  isn't  it?" 

The  younger  girl  gave  a  momentary  straight  dispas- 
sionate glance  of  her  green  eyes — a  glance  in  which  Law- 
rance felt  himself  comprehended  to  no  known  end.  He 
literally  shivered :  he  was  frightened  by  the  sense  of  his 
blindness  and  his  insecurity.  Doris  meanwhile  was  en- 
gaged in  a  harangue  concerning  vegetables. 

"And  I  must  say,"  she  concluded,  "you're  not  very 
polite  to  Mr.  Lawrance.  Especially  considering  we 
haven't  seen  him  for  more'n  a  month.  I  think  you're 
very  rude ! ' '  The  poor  girl  could  not  recover  her  self- 
control. 

Lawrance  felt  embarrassed  for  her.  Again  his  mind 
was  diverted  from  Olga,  he  tried  to  think  of  something  to 
say  that  might  help. 

What  he  did  say  was  not  tactful  in  the  least :  *  *  Per- 
haps Olga  didn't  catch  Lord  Burpham's  name.  She 
only  just  met  him  that  night  we  were  at  the  'Trafal- 
gar.'" 

"  Oh ! "  Doris  lifted  her  chin  high.  * '  She  caught  his 
name  all  right.    Trust  her!" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  151 

There  was  silence.  Doris  ostentatiously  busied  her- 
self with  some  cabbage  and  potatoes,  while  Olga  read. 
Lawrance,  looking  at  the  sitting  girl,  suffered  strongly 
from  the  especial  mobility  of  her  figure,  a  mobility  that 
was  tender,  yet  keen.  It  was,  as  an  actual  fact,  dreadful 
to  him  that  she  should  be  there,  that  she  should  be  made 
in  just  that  way,  like  a  little  girl  and  yet  not  like  a  little 
girl — he  could  not  express  it.  She  wore  an  old  blue 
dress;  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up.  Probably  she  had 
been  washing  dishes.  That  dark  fine  hair  of  hers  fell  on 
her  bare  arm,  suggesting  fiercely  forbidden  images:  her 
pale  flesh  seemed  to  signal  exquisitely  sensitive  reserves : 
the  dark  down  that  bridged  her  eyebrows  was  so  delicate, 
so  scarcely  seen,  and  yet  so  much  her  personal  attribute, 
that  even  the  faint  sight  of  it  seemed  to  initiate  Law- 
rance to  a  throbbing  intimacy,  to  initiate  him  and  to 
withhold.  It  was  an  acute  and  esoteric  torture  to  the 
young  man.  He  remembered  his  dream,  and  flushed. 
Her  indifference  was  the  cruellest  possible  trouble  to  his 
blood.  If  only  she  had  been  demonstrative  and  affection- 
ate, he  would  have  had  some  leverage  for  the  movement 
of  his  will  not  to  yield.  Now,  he  could  do  nothing  but 
feel  his  weakness.  He  looked  away  from  her,  but  her 
red  lips  and  delicate  straight  nose  and  broad  low  pale 
forehead  were  in  his  mind's  eye  still.  "What  does  she 
mean,"  he  brought  himself  to  think,  "sitting  there  read- 
ing while  her  sister  is  doing  kitchen  work?  She  must 
be  selfish.  She'd  make  a  bad  wife." —  There  she  sat, 
immune.  Poor  Doris !  No  wonder  she  found  Olga  try- 
ing. With  a  feeble  flicker  of  irony,  he  reflected  that  he 
did  too. 

He  sat  down,  and  took  up  a  cheap  illustrated  maga- 
zine.   It  was  absurd  to  keep  on  standing  up  there  by  the 


152  A  CHASTE  MAN 

dresser,  staring  at  the  ground.  He  would  not  think  of 
Olga:  there,  at  least,  was  exercise  for  his  will.  He 
wished  he  could  think  of  something  to  say  to  Doris.  He 
was  annoyed  by  his  temperamental  inability  to  say  some- 
thing about  nothing.  Doris  was  too  much  put  out  to 
chatter.  Well,  that  wouldn't  last  long.  ...  It  was  odd 
that  Lord  Burpham  should  be  the  unwitting  cause  of  dis- 
tress both  to  Muriel  and  to  Doris,  and  for  the  same 
reason,  because  another  person  happened  to  know  him, 
and  they  didn't.  Lords  brought  about  a  great  deal 
of  disappointment  and  heart-burning  and  general  com- 
motion. He  wished  they  didn't  exist.  No  wonder 
some  people  wanted  to  abolish  them.  Yes,  Muriel  and 
Doris  were  agitated  in  just  the  same  way,  both  so  pro- 
foundly. Hurt  vanity — hurt  in  an  especially  bitter 
and  unforgivable  way.  .  .  .  No,  it  was  no  good.  He 
was  in  the  same  room  with  Olga,  breathing  the  same 
air.  He  could  not  forget  it —  It  was  Muriel's  fault! 
Her  jealousy  had  let  him  in  for  this.  But  he  had  co- 
operated ;  he  was  paying  the  penalty  for  that.  He  had 
not  known  what  he  was  doing ! 

He  dropped  the  ridiculous  magazine  on  the  floor;  he 
got  up  from  his  chair,  determined  at  the  moment  to 
plead  illness  or  to  make  some  other  excuse  to  get  clear 
of  the  house.  He  was  choked  with  continence.  He 
should  have  been  married  to  some  honest,  simple,  vigor- 
ous girl, — some  "jolly  pug  and  well-mouthed  wench," — 
he  should  have  been  a  country  clergyman  married  so, 
freshly  a  father  every  two  years :  that  should  have  been 
his  defence  against  the  flesh.  Anglo-Saxon  morality 
was  in  his  blood  that  ran  so  steadily  and  stubbornly  with 
desire.    Anglo-Saxon  honour,  too,  was  involved  in  him, 


A  CHASTE  MAN  153 

and  he  felt  it  now,  bristling  under  the  memory  of  the 
promise  he  had  given  to  his  wife.  He  half  turned  to  the 
door.  Yes,  he  might  save  himself  from  the  revenges  of 
his  honour  and  his  morality  by  immediate  retreat. 

Olga  rose  with  a  swiftness  anticipating  that  of  the 
escape  that  Lawrance  had  intended  to  make.  **I'll  help 
you  now,  Doris,"  she  said.  "I  did  want  to  finish  that 
chapter.  Sorry."  She  looked  at  Lawrance  with  her 
sudden  directed  clearness — too  rapidly  for  a  gaze,  too 
comprehendingly  for  a  glance.  "Why  didn't  you  come 
before  ? ' '  she  asked  him.  ' '  I  wanted  you  to  come.  You 
never  even  wrote." 

**And  when  he  does  come  you  don't  hardly  speak  to 
him!  I  wouldn't  come  again  after  this  if  I  was  him!" 
Doris  looked  up  from  by  the  oven,  with  a  flushed  face 
and  pouting  lips.  "The  way  you're  wrapped  up  in 
yourself,  Olga,  I'd  be  ashamed!  He  was  just  going 
away,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder." 

**You  weren't,  were  you?" 

"Well,  I — I  thought  you  had  so  many  to  get  tea  for, 
and  your  mother  not  being  well — " 

"We'll  have  tea  ready  in  a  few  minutes."  Olga  took 
a  tray,  and  began  putting  cups  and  saucers  and  things 
on  it.  Her  movements  were  rapid  and  clear,  much  more 
eflScient,  better  gauged,  than  those  of  Doris.  She  went 
to  the  oven,  sifted  out  the  ashes,  put  on  a  light  sprinkling 
of  coal.  "I'll  go  and  set  the  table."  She  took  the 
tray.  "You  might  have  written  again."  She  lowered 
her  voice  as  she  passed  by  the  young  man  at  the  door. 
"How  did  you  get  bruised  like  that?"  She  had  a 
curious  look  of  reluctant  tenderness  that  was  new  to 
Lawrance, 


154,  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Oh,  an  accident — nothing  much." 

"Well — "  She  stopped  and  gave  her  familiar  little 
frown. 

' '  Give  me  your  tray, ' '  he  said,  and  took  it. 

Outside  the  door  she  turned  intimately  to  him,  with 
a  catch  in  her  breath. 

"We're  not  happy.  Everything's  been  wrong  these 
last  weeks.  I  want  to  tell  you.  Let's  talk  later  on — 
after  tea.    You'll  see  that  things  aren't  right." 

He  nodded,  said  "I'm  very  sorry,"  being  really  re- 
lieved by  this  presentment  of  a  buffer-state  of  feeling 
between  them.  "There's  nothing  wrong  with  your 
mother?"  he  asked. 

"She's  not  ill,  exactly.  She's  unhappy.  ...  I  can't 
tell  you  now.  I  do  so  wish  you'd  come  before.  I  wish 
I  was  ugly!" 

*  *  What  do  you  mean  ? ' '  Lawrance  was  alarmed.  The 
girl  had  spoken  with  a  violence  astonishing  in  her. 

* '  Give  me  the  tray.  No,  don 't  come  in.  Take  me  out 
somewhere  after  tea — anywhere." 

Lawrance,  through  the  opened  door,  saw  Mr.  Crocker- 
ton  Deavitt  and  Marjorie  playing  dominoes.  "That's 
the  feller!"  Deavitt,  with  his  head  down  sideways  on 
the  table,  sniffed  interrogatively,  then  turned  the  domino 
up.  "Double  four!  My  word!  Mother  will  be 
pleased!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AS  Lawrance  sat  down  to  tea,  he  knew  that  Olga 
was  not  mistaken:  something  was  wrong. 
The  air  was  burdened  as  with  an  unformu- 
lated sentence  of  punishment.  Old  Flynn  had  shuffled 
unwillingly  in  at  the  last  moment.  He  had  a  bad  cold, 
and  could  hardly  speak.  He  looked  threatened.  All 
through  the  meal  he  wore  a  thick  woolly  cinnamon-col- 
oured overcoat,  tightly  buttoned,  and  a  faded  grey  com- 
forter round  his  throat.  After  the  first  moment  of  see- 
ing Lawrance  he  did  not  meet  the  young  man's  eye, 
which,  indeed,  was  hardly  ever  there  for  him  to  meet. 
''You've  been  away,"  was  all  he  said  to  him. 

"Father's  been  all  the  afternoon  at  Captain  Eagle's!" 
Marjorie  informed  them,  and,  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed, "Captain  Eagle's!"  assailed  Lawrance 's  ears  with 
meaningless  spectral  repetition.  He  sat  down  between 
Doris  and  Olga,  on  Mr.  Flynn 's  right.  Opposite  him 
was  the  boarder  "Uncle  Lance,"  an  elderly  bank-clerk 
whose  full  name  was  Mr.  Lancelot  Ewing.  He  was 
small  and  sapless,  with  an  indriven  blighted  face  that 
might  have  been  mean  if  it  had  had  enough  life  to  be 
that :  as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  represent  the  human  aspect 
reduced  to  the  last  level  of  insignificance  and  stultifica- 
tion. It  was  only  the  disproportionate  largeness  of  his 
ears  that  redeemed  him  to  some  sort  of  personality.  He 
looked  as  though  he  had  never  had  money  and  had 

155 


156  A  CHASTE  MAN 

never  made  love.  He  gave  out,  from  all  over  him,  a 
thin  exudation  of  poverty  and  inanimate  toil.  Mar- 
jorie,  continuously  devouring  bread-and-butter,  sat  next 
to  him,  and  on  her  other  side  was  Mr.  Crockerton 
Deavitt,  not  talkative  now,  evidently  susceptible  to  the 
atmosphere.  He  cleared  his  throat  in  the  intervals  of 
applying  himself  to  a  hard-boiled  egg.  Mrs.  Flynn 
and  the  other  boarder,  "Uncle  Tofty,"  whose  place  was 
laid  next  to  Olga's,  had  not  appeared. 

Lawrance  felt  dazed :  his  very  expectancy  of  evil  had 
dulled  edges.  They  all  seemed  like  dumb  animals  for- 
tuitously herded  together,  with  depressed  heads,  munch- 
ing. Deavitt,  it  was  true,  was  on  the  edge  of  the  herd, 
he  would  get  clear.  He  gave  Lawrance  now  and  again  a 
glance  that  seemed  to  indicate  an  imminent  remark,  and 
Lawrance,  fearing  a  return  to  the  subject  of  Lipscot, 
addressed  him  with  the  question.  Had  he  known  IVIr. 
Titmarsh  for  long?  He  hardly  heard  the  brief  and 
determinate  reply.  The  old  "Mariner"  kept  on  caress- 
ing his  cup  of  cocoa,  warming  his  haggard  hands. 
Doris  occasionally  sniffed,  and  Mr.  Ewing  ate  audibly. 

"Oh!"  Marjorie  cried  suddenly.  "There's  Uncle 
Tofty!" 

Mr.  Claude  Tofton,  a  large  fair  man,  somewhat  fur- 
ther on  towards  middle  age  than  Crockerton  Deavitt, 
stood  by  the  door,  regarding  them  with  a  facetiously  ag- 
gressive air.  He  had  one  thumb  stuck  in  the  arm-hole 
of  his  dove-coloured  waistcoat.  His  coat  and  trousers, 
of  light  tweed  and  loosely  fitting,  served  to  expand  his 
person.  With  the  appearance  of  a  bookmaker  or  an 
auctioneer,  he  was  actually  connected,  lucratively,  with 
a  large  Furniture  "Emporium"  in  the  West  end.  He 
advanced  with  a  gross  familiar  swing. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  157 

"Well,  Lawrance!"  He  tapped  the  young  man's 
shoulder.  "If  a  chicken  and  a  half  costs  four-and- 
eleven,  what's  my  share,  eh? —  You  don't  tumble,  eh?" 
He  laughed  glutinously.  "I've  got  half  the  youngest 
chicken,  anyway."  He  patted  Olga's  arm,  and  Law- 
rance moved  in  his  chair,  looking  dangerously  at  him. 
"By  Jinks,  ain't  we  havin'  a  lively  funeral,  girls? 
Hand  us  over  the  butter,  Doris,  there's  a  good  kid! 
Where's  my  ale,  Marjorie?  Gee-whiz!"  Tofton  had 
been  in  the  United  States  once  on  business,  and  was 
proud  of  the  American  slang  he  had  picked  up.  ' '  What 
kind  of  a  joint  is  this?"  He  turned  up  his  little  pug- 
naciously twinkling  eyes.     ' '  Where 's  my  tumbler  ? ' ' 

"Where's  my  fountain-pen?"  Mr.  Ewing  surprised 
the  company  by  the  sudden  dry  tremulous  snap  of  this 
question. 

"Lord  love  us,  Ewing,"  Tofton  insolently  answered. 
"You  ought  to  keep  that  fountain-pen  of  yours  chained 
up." 

"I  lent  it  to  you  yesterday,  you  know  I  did." 

"Ho  didjer?    Well,  I  haven't  eaten  it." 

"Said  'e  only  wanted  it  to  endorse  a  cheque  with." 
Ewing 's  eyes,  fixed  straight  in  front  of  him,  were  red 
with  anger.  "Then  takes  it  orf.  'E  writes  thick. 
After  'e  'ad  it  last  time  I  could  'ardly  use  it — crossed 
the  nib.  Man  oughtn't  to  go  using  another  man's  foun- 
tain-pen.   Oughter  'ave  more — "    He  gulped. 

"Interesting  conversation."    Tofton  forced  a  yawn. 

Marjorie  had  been  trying  to  get  up  to  fetch  the 
ale  and  tumbler,  but  Deavitt  was  holding  her  with  his 
hand  firmly  clasped  under  the  table  just  above  her 
knee. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Deavitt!"    She  pouted  and  giggled. 


158  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"What's  the  matter?"  Tofton  looked  sharply  at 
her,  with  annoyed  suspicion. 

** Naughty  child!"  Deavitt  exclaimed.  "Why  don't 
you  tell  the — nice — kind — gentleman  where  his  tumbler 
is?" 

"I've  got  to  go  and  get  it  for  him!  Oo-er!  Let  me 
go,  Mr.  Deavitt!    You're  pinching!" 

"But  it's  very  rude  of  little  girls  to  leave  the  table. 
Isn't  it.  Pa?"  He  addressed  old  Flynn,  who  sat  eating 
bits  of  hard  dry  toast,  taking  not  the  smallest  notice. 
Olga  looked  frightened,  and  Doris  held  herself  con- 
sciously aloof. 

' '  I  shall  have  to  get  a  new  nib, ' '  Ewing  put  in. 

"P'raps  you'd  like  to  fetch  me  the  tumbler  yourself, 
then?"  Tofton  was  now  furious.  His  heavy  red  jowl 
had  a  mottled  flush.  Ewing  watched  him  with  gratifica- 
tion. 

"Fancy  that,  now!"  Deavitt  exclaimed  in  a  forced 
ladylike  tone.  "I  wonder!"  He  scratched  his  fore- 
head, and  looked  earnestly  to  the  ceiling.  "I  wonder 
what  it  is  that  makes  me  wonder!" 

Olga  rose  quickly,  took  a  tumbler  from  the  sideboard, 
and  put  it  by  Tofton 's  plate. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "Thank  you:" 
with  the'  implication  that  the  girl  was  intimately  on  his 
side.     "But  I  haven't  any  ale,"  he  added. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Deavitt  in  an  absent 
voice.    Marjorie  began  to  struggle  again  to  get  up. 

"I  should  think  you'd  get  sick  of  playing  the  giddy 
goat,  Mr.  Deavitt."  Tofton 's  voice  was  thick.  "Why 
can't  you  chuck  it,  and  let  the  child  get  up?" 

"Margarine!  Ahem!"  Deavitt  looked  down  at  her 
reprovingly.    "That's  twice  I've  had  to  speak  to  you 


A  CHASTE  MAN  159 

already!  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  to  get  up  when 
you  're  called  in  the  morning,  lazy  little  hound  ?  Please, 
teacher — "  He  held  up  his  disengaged  hand. — "Please 
teacher,  this  little  girl  pinched  me.     Oh,  she  is  rude!" 

"You  hurry  up  and  get  that  bottle  of  Bass,  Marjorie !" 
Tofton  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table.  "Am  I  to 
wait  all  the  evening  for  it  ? " 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised."  Deavitt  had  not  once 
looked  at  Tofton,  nor  addressed  him  directly. 

"Nothing  like  real  wit,  is  there?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised."  Deavitt 's  tone,  polite 
and  casual,  did  not  vary. 

"Oh,  say  it  again,  I  would,  say  it  again!  What's  the 
charge  for  the  show,  eh?"  Tofton  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  took  out  a  sixpence,  which  he  shoved  across 
the  table.  "Talk  about  humour!  Time  for  the  Second 
House  yet?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

"Good  Lord!"  Tofton  shouted,  impaled  between  his 
rage  and  his  idea  of  his  dignity.  ' '  Good  Lord !  A  man 
gets  fed  up  with  this  kind  of  tommyrot.  A  pity  some 
people  don't  know  when  they're  making  exhibitions  of 
themselves."  Deavitt  laughed.  "Dam  silly  swine!" 
Tofton  bellowed. 

"Mr.  Tofton."  The  old  man  drew  himself  suddenly 
up,  and  looked  steadily  at  him.     "You're  at  my  table." 

"Well!"  Tofton  stared,  taken  aback.  "Well,  what 
of  it?     I  pa?/,  don't  I?—    What  of  it?" 

"Nothing  but  that  I'll  thank  you  to  behave  aeeord- 
ingly." 

Mr.  Flynn  was  trembling.  The  little  bank-clerk  by 
his  side  looked  up  with  features  discomposed  to  a 
momentary  eagerness  that  seemed  too  much  for  him. 


160  A  CHASTE  MAN 

His  eyes  fell  to  his  plate  again  at  once.  Doris  grew 
very  red  and  smothered  an  exclamation.  Deavitt 
guarded  any  emotion  he  might  have,  but  released  his 
grasp  of  Marjorie,  who  was  too  much  excited  to  think  of 
getting  up  now.  Olga  was  very  still ;  her  fixed  eyes  di- 
lated. Lawrance  touched  her  hand,  and  she  at  once 
took  his,  firmly. 

Tofton's  jaw  had  dropped.  "Well,  I — "  he  stuttered. 
' '  I —  Look  here,  now, ' '  he  went  on,  * '  this  is  a  bit  thick, 
Mr.  Flynn.  I  put  it  to  you,  I  didn't  start  all  this  silly 
rot.    Why  do  you  go  for  me,  then — eh?" 

*  *  Understand  this,  Mr.  Tof  ton :  that  I  don 't  allow  my 
guests  to  be  insulted  at  my  table.  I  don't  allow  it.'* 
The  old  man  made  no  gesture. 

*'Ho!  You  don't  allow  it,  don't  you!  Well,  and 
may  I  ask  you  how  you're  going  to  stop  it?" 

"By  turning  you  out  of  my  house  if  you  insult  Mr. 
Deavitt  again." 

*  *  Turn  me  out !  eh  ?  You  can 't  do  it.  You  know  you 
can't  do  it.  Look  here."  He  got  up.  Lawrance  im- 
mediately got  up  too,  and  barred  Tofton's  approach  to 
the  old  man.    "What  are  you  interfering  for,  hey?" 

"I  say,  Mr.  Flynn," —  Deavitt  leaned  over — "don't 
trouble  about  me.    I  won't  rag  any  more." 

"Hear  that?  Hear  what  he  says?"  Tof  ton  stamped 
his  foot.  '  *  And  you  expect  me  to  keep  mum  and  not  say 
bo  to  a  goose!" 

"Get  his  ale,  Marjorie,"  said  Olga  quickly,  and  the 
child,  with  full  excited  eyes,  reluctantly  left  the  table, 
as  Mrs.  Flynn  came  in. 

Lawrance,  meeting  her  aspect,  was  astounded  by  its 
change.    The  roguish  light  was  gone  from  her  eyes; 


A  CHASTE  MAN  161 

they  were  unhappy  and  nervous :  she  looked  much  older, 
she  looked  stiffened  and  hardened,  she,  still  herself,  was 
crossed  by  a  frightening  unfamiliarity.  At  Lawrance 
she  tried  to  smile,  and  the  effect  of  this  abortive  reasser- 
tion  was  to  the  young  man  no  less  than  tragic.  It  was 
as  if  there  were  gathered  up  into  the  smile  all  sickness 
that  would  be  health,  all  darkness  that  would  be  light, 
all  loss  that  would  be  gain. 

'  *  Come  along,  Ma ! ' '  Deavitt  called  out,  and  Lawrance 
was  extraordinarily  grateful  to  him  for  that  tone,  at 
that  time.  ''Another  cup  of  tea  for  little  Archibald! 
Mine's  the  one  with  the  cow-catcher,  please,  teacher. 
Oh — thank  you!"  He  pointed  to  the  cup  that  had  an 
inner  ridge  for  moustache  protection. 

Marjorie,  reappearing  with  the  ale,  tittered.  * '  I  copied 
that  one  you  told  me  about  the  cow-catcher  in  my  note- 
book ! ' '  she  said  eagerly.  ' '  I  copied  lots.  *  Sunday  was 
the  day,  and  'twas  half-past  nine,  "When  she  took  the 
ticket  on  the  District  Line ! '  And :  'We 've  marmalade, 
Of  every  shade — '  you  know."  She  leaned  over  the 
table,  and  pushed  Deavitt 's  cup  to  the  tea-urn,  neatly 
abstracting  Tof ton's  sixpence  as  she  did  so. 

"Naughty  little  hound,"  said  Deavitt  in  an  under- 
tone.   ' '  Mustn  't  do  that. ' ' 

Tofton  had  not  noticed.  He  still  confronted  Law- 
rance, and  his  back  was  turned  to  Mrs.  Flynn.  "Better 
ask  her  what  she  thinks  about  turning  me  out,  hadn't 
you?"  He  jabbed  his  head  down  towards  old  Flynn, 
who  kept  his  place,  very  erect,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  wife. 

"Dearly  beloved  brethren,"  Deavitt  intoned  parsoni- 
cally,  "  as  we  have  now  concluded  the  last  verse  of  hymn 


162  A  CHASTE  MAN 

number  two  hundred  and  tooty-two,  may  I  request  you 
to  return  to  your  pews  ?  The  offertory  to-day  is  for  the 
Society  for  Providing  Topboots  and  Pyjama-legs  for  the 
Aborigines  of  East  Clapham. ' '  He  took  a  sixpence  from 
his  pocket  and  threw  it  over  so  that  it  fell  with  a  ring 
into  Tof  ton's  plate.  "Oh,  thank  you,  madam! 
Couldn  't  you  make  it  sevenpence-half penny  1 ' ' 

Doris  laughed,  and  then  looked  indignant.  Mrs. 
Flynn  sat  down. 

"There's  your  ale,  Mr.  Tof  ton,"  said  Olga  without 
looking  round.  Her  lips  had  paled  a  little,  and  those 
long  eyes,  that  kept  fixed  to  a  far  point  in  front  of  her, 
were  dry  and  bright.  Doris  was  fidgetting,  anxious  to 
say  something,  but  at  a  loss. 

Tof  ton  turned.  "What  d'yer  think  of  it,  Mrs.  F.? 
Seems  I  don't  behave  so's  to  suit  your  friends,  so  I've 
gotter  be  chucked  out !    What  d  'yer  think  of  that  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  say,  Mr.  Tofton!"  Lawrance,  seeing  Mrs. 
Flynn 's  distress  and  her  fear,  interposed.  "Don't  you 
think  we've  had  about  enough?" 

He  could  not  say  more.  His  impulse  dragged,  ex- 
hausted. Looking  round  at  all  their  faces,  he  was  smit- 
ten suddenly  by  the  conviction  of  a  need  for  purification, 
for  himself,  among  them  all,  involved  bj'  them  all.  A 
Sacrament  of  Purification !  If  only  there  was  one !  There 
must  be,  wuth  this  so  urgent  and  so  sick  demand. 
Lawrance  was  Christian  at  heart :  he  could  believe,  now, 
in  Christianity  as  living  truth,  could  believe  in  the  utter 
indispensability  of  the  Faith.  What  could  deliver  Olga 
from  the  body  of  this  death  ?  How  could  he  ?  It  might 
be  that  she  would  need  purification  from  him,  most  of 
all.    On  what  verge  was  she  now,  forebodingly? 


A  CHASTE  MAN  163 

Tofton,  still  standing,  took  his  bottle  of  ale  and  poured 
it  into  his  tumbler  deliberately,  preening  his  dignity. 

"What  I  say,"  he  went  on,  after  a  gulp,  "what  I  say  is 
this :    1 11  go — certainly — of  course — ' ' 

"Just  a  drop  more  cow  juice,  madam,  if  you  please!" 
observed  Mr.  Deavitt. 

" — but  there  are  one  or  two  little  matters  that  have 
to  be  settled  first,  best  known  to  you  and  me."  Tofton 
gave  Mrs.  Flynn  a  heavy  stare,  then  gulped  at  his  ale 
again.  "As  a  gentleman,  I  needn't  say  more."  Again 
he  put  his  thumb  in  the  arm-hole  of  his  waistcoat.  * '  But 
there's  one  thing  I'm  going  to  have," — turning  to  the 
old  man — "and  that's  an  apology.  A  full  apology!" 
He  drained  his  tumbler. 

"I'd  sooner  swing  than  give  it  you!"  Mr.  Flynn 
shot  a  single  flash  that  sprang  from  his  eyes  like  blood 
from  a  stripe. 

"Oh,  you'll  think  it  over!  Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
F.?" 

*  *  Well,  now ! ' '  Deavitt  exclaimed  severely.  * '  Where 's 
that  half  an  egg  that  Mother  left  last  Sunday?  Wast- 
ing good  hen-fruit  like  that,  Margarine,  how  dare  you  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Flynn  did  not  answer  Tofton,  nor  look  at  him, 
but  went  on  pouring  tea  into  the  "cow-catcher"  cup, 
with  a  hand  that  trembled  only  slightly. 

"Now  then,  Marjorie,"  Deavitt  continued,  "hurry  up 
and  get  your  nose-bag  off;  we  ought  to  be  starting." 

"Good  evening,  ladies  and  gentlemen."  Tofton 
looked  round  him  with  malevolent  triumph.  He  gave  a 
sarcastic  bow.  "I'm  sure  you'll  excuse  me,  won't 
you?" 

"Anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Ewing  deliberately,  looking  at 


164  A  CHASTE  MAN 

no  one,  "anyhow  it's  not  a  decent  action  for  a  fellow  to 
spoil  another  fellow's  fountain-pen.  An'  cost  eight-an'- 
thrippence. ' ' 

Tofton  took  no  notice.  "With  his  gross  aggressive 
swing  now  consciously  heightened,  he  went  out. 

"All  Aover!"  cried  Deavitt,  "except  the  shouting!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DIRECTLY  after  tea  Mr.  Deavitt  took  Marjorie 
off  to  some  show:  all  the  movements  of  this 
gentleman  were  unexpectedly  edged;  he  was 
gone  in  a  flash,  Marjorie,  with  her  coat  half  on,  hurry- 
ing at  his  heels.  Mrs.  Flynn  left  the  room  almost  simul- 
taneously; Doris  was  already  gone.  Olga,  with  her 
hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  stood  wavering  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  bright  mouth  shook,  she  looked  searchingly  yet 
uncertainly  at  Lawrance,  said:  ''Don't  forget,  will 
you  ? ' '  and  followed  her  mother. 

The  young  man,  labouring  with  a  paralyzed  conscious- 
ness, walked  over  to  the  fireplace  and  sat  down  in  his 
usual  chair,  opposite  the  Mariner,  who  was  filling  his 
meerschaum  pipe  with  concentrated  attention. —  * '  How 
egg-and-strawberry ! " —  "  Most  rikkidoodolous ! ' ' — 
"Here  endeth  the  Second  Lesson!"—  "That's  the  fel- 
ler!"—  Deavitt 's  gags  and  patter  hypnotically  echoed: 
they  streaked  the  silence.  Lawrance  kept  thinking  in 
fits  and  starts.  Was  all  this  better  or  worse  than  what 
he  had  expected — better  or  worse  so  far  as  it  affected 
himf  He  had  prepared  himself  for  a  temptation  that 
had  not  come :  the  fire  had  been  drawn,  was  he  to  go  scot- 
free?  Olga  was  in  trouble;  he  must  help  her,  he  must 
divert  his  passion  for  her  to  sympathy  and  tenderness 
and  goodwill:  why,  what  better  chance  could  he  have 
had?    It  was  exactly  the  diversion  that  he  should  have 

165 


166  A  CHASTE  MAN 

been  the  first  to  demand,  for  his  own  salvation, — perhaps 
for  hers,  but  here  he  was  on  altogether  unseen 
ground.  .  .  ,  The  old  man  sat  still,  smoking  his  pipe, 
with  one  finger  laid  along  the  side  of  his  long  delicately 
shaped  nose.  He  was  still  bound  tightly  up  in  his  brown 
overcoat  and  his  faded  grey  comforter.  With  the  middle 
finger  of  his  other  hand  he  kept  tapping  rhythmically 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  Lawrance  wished  he  would 
drink  some  whiskey,  wished  he  would  not  sit  there  so 
much  exposed  to  what  he  knew.  .  .  .  Olga  in  trouble! 
His  thoughts  swung  slowly  back,  with  a  motion  like  that 
of  a  crane  loading  a  ship :  then  the  remembrance  of  the 
few  looks  she  had  had  for  him  that  evening  came  on  with 
a  swift  assault  of  pain  and  fear.  Ah,  but  it  was  the  very 
chance  he  had  most  to  dread!  Circumstances  were 
weaving  a  bond  for  them.  Olga  would  be  changed — 
was  changed.  This  "help"  of  his  would  make  just  the 
appeal — and  she,  grateful  and  dependent,  with  all  that 
superimposition  of  new  emotions,  would  be  more  subtle, 
more  dangerous,  in  her  appeal  to  him.  .  .  .  He  would 
not  go  on  with  such  thoughts — thoughts  that  brought 
images,  .  .  . 

"I'll  take  a  drink,  Mariner,  I  think,"  he  said,  hoping 
that  his  host  would  reply:  **I  will,  too."  But  the  old 
man  only  nodded. 

"Look  here — "  Lawrance  stopped:  his  tone  had  sur- 
prised him  by  seeming  impertinent.  Pouring  his 
whiskey,  he  had  his  back  now  to  Mr.  Flynn. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  The  Mariner  spoke  tersely,  and 
showed  that  he  was  on  his  guard. 

Lawrance  turned,  and  receded  mentally  before  those 
hard  clear  blue  eyes,  suddenly  wakeful  for  him. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know."    He  gave  a  foolish 


A  CHASTE  MAN  167 

half -laugh  of  embarrassment.  "Look  here,  Mariner, 
we're  old  friends.  "What's  up?  Of  course  I  know 
there's  some  trouble." 

''Trouble?  That  fellow  Tofton's  a  bounder  and  a 
cad,  and  he's  got  to  go — somehow.  That's  all  the 
trouble." 

"Well,  isn't  that  easily  settled?"  said  Lawrance, 
knowing  that  it  was  not. 

"It  can't  go  on.    It  can't  go  on." 

"Don't  you  want  to  tell  me  anything?"  The  old 
man  did  not  answer.  ' '  Surely  you  're  taking  a  drdp  with 
me?"  Lawrance  added. 

"No.  Not  to-night. —  That  cur  drinks,  in  his  way. 
Drinks  in  his  room,  the  swine!  He's  not  fit  to  drink. 
He'd  got  some  of  his  dirty  liquor  in  him  this  evening. 
Couldn't  you  see?" 

"Not  very  much,  had  he?" 

"No,  that's  just  it.  Not  much — not  enough.  That's 
his  way."  Mr.  Flynn  paused  and  emptied  his  pipe. 
' '  The  bottom  of  the  trouble  is  money, ' '  he  went  on  slowly. 
"That's  at  the  bottom." 

' '  Good  Lord,  is  that  all  ?  You  don 't  mean  to  say  you 
don 't  know  you  can  count  on  me  there  ? ' ' 

The  Mariner  shook  his  head.  "It's  too  much  money, 
Lorrie. —    Too  much. ' ' 

"How  much?" 

"I  don't  know.  He's  been  lending  us  money  for 
years,  on  and  off. —    I  don 't  know. ' ' 

"Patsey  knows,  I  suppose?" 

"Why  do  you  bring  her  in?"  The  old  man's  pug- 
nacity of  tone  startled  Lawrance. 

"I  don't  know— I  thought—" 

*  *  Well,  I  can  tell  you  as  well  as  she  can.    Don 't  go  and 


168  A  CHASTE  MAN 

ask  her — don't  talk  to  her — I  won't  have  it ! — Five  or  six 
hundred  pounds — at  least.     There  ye  've  got  it ! " 

* '  I  might  raise  that ;  with  a  little  time. ' ' 

**Well,  you're  not  going  to  raise  it.  I  don't  borrow 
money  that  I  can 't  pay  back. —  Besides,  you  're  married. 
You  haven't  the  right —  In  fact,  you'll  oblige  me  by 
not  raising  the  subject  again.  Gad!  I'd  steal  the 
money,  but  I  won't  cadge  on  my  friends.  Young  chap — 
married.  You've  no  right,  Lorrie,  to  propose  some- 
thing you  wouldn't  accept  yourself.  Do  you  see  your- 
self sponging  at  my  age  on  a  young  fellow  like  you  ? ' ' 

"Things  aren't  always  as  they  sound."  Lawrance 
was  caught  up  by  his  own  remark;  he  knew  for  a  mo- 
ment that  it  struck  deeply  at  himself:  it  lodged  in  him 
for  later  extrication  and  survey. 

''Are  you  fond  of  Olga?"  The  Mariner  was  not 
looking  at  him,  but  the  question  was  sharply  cut. 

**Yes,  I  am."    Lawrance  strained  his  breath. 

"Well,  get  her  away,  then.  That's  all  I  want.  Get 
her  away.  She  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer.  It  isn't 
fair.  It's  worth  your  whUe  to  get  her  away,  if  you're 
fond  of  her.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  else.  But  this  is  a 
chance  you  won't  be  sorry  for.  It's  the  best  way  out. 
It's  the  only  way  out."  He  sat  with  hands  clasped  by 
his  chin :  his  hard  fingers  made  rapid  movements, 

'*Do  you  mean  to  say  that  that  blackguard — ?  God, 
I'll  kill  him!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  There's  enough  of  that,  I  do  mean  to 
say  it,  and  that's  enough." 

Lawrance  was  not  prone  to  demonstrations,  he  hardly 
realized  that  he  had  got  up  and  was  holding  his  friend 's 
two  hands  in  his. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  169 

"I  swear  she  shan't  be  in  the  house  with  him  another 
night!" 

' '  I  could  kiss  you  for  that,  my  boy,  I  could  kiss  you — 
for  all  your  black  eye !"  The  old  man  laughed  under  his 
reaction. 

Lawrance,  elated,  stood  by  the  mantelpiece.  He  had 
acted  from  an  immediate  strong  impulse,  and  that  im- 
pulse for  the  moment  made  him  secure.  Here  had 
emerged  the  matter  of  weight  and  force,  it  was  a  square 
boulder,  firm-set,  sprung  up  for  him ;  on  it  he  stood  and 
held  ground,  looking  far  over  the  dwindled  parapets  of 
convention.  There  was  a  sudden  abasement  and  flat- 
tening of  those  towering  multitudinous  heads  that  over- 
looked them. 

''You  mean  it?"  The  Mariner  looked  up  with  a  con- 
traction of  suspicion.     ' '  You  '11  take  her  away — at  once  ? ' ' 

**0f  course.     Isn't  that  the  only  important  thing?" 

"Mother  of  God!  If  I  were  a  younger  man — " 
The  Mariner  clenched  his  fingers.  "You  saw  that 
bullying  swine?  You  saw  him  to-night?  There's  only 
one  way  with  him — violence — a  flogging — a  smash  in  the 
snout — put  that  fear  into  his  dirty  soul — the  fear  of 
death — he  needs  it !  The  man  sneaked  us  into  his  debt, 
Lorrie — paid  bills  for  us — one  thing  and  another — ^he 
was  waiting — " 

"I  could  give  him  a  note  of  hand  for  it  all,  with  full 
security — " 

"He  needn't  take  it,  need  he?  And  he  wouldn't — 
what  do  you  think?  And  why  should  you?  You're  do- 
ing enough,  good  God!  Perhaps  you  might  smash  him 
up  into  the  bargain.  I  see  you've  had  practice  lately." 
He  chuckled,  loosened  his  overcoat  and  his  scarf,  and  be- 


170  A  CHASTE  MAN 

gan  warming  his  hands.    ' '  Ah — and  1 11  have  a  drink — 
now.     Can't  drink  unless  I'm  happy." 

Lawrance  poured  him  an  abundant  whiskey.  He  was 
longing  to  consult  with  him  about  the  details  of  Olga's 
escape,  but  he  couldn't  say  a  word.  He  knew  that 
whatever  he  might  say  would  jar,  would  strike  out  of 
harmony  with  the  fine  completeness  of  the  trust  that 
the  Mariner  had  in  him.  As  Lawrance  looked  at  his 
friend  a  wave  of  admiration  and  affection  came  up, 
loosening  aU  his  springs  of  feeling.  The  grey  trousers, 
so  habituated  to  the  long  shanks,  the  disordered  loose 
collar  and  red  necktie,  the  spotted  waistcoat  with  its 
missing  buttons,  the  heavy  loose  black  boots,  with  their 
leather  rubbed  to  grey  at  the  ankles — all  was  intimately 
of  the  man,  confirming  love  for  him.  Lawrance,  in  his 
turn,  could  have  kissed  him,  kissed  his  tight-drawn  red- 
dened cheeks,  his  capriciously  wrinkled  mouth.  He 
knew  that  no  one  else  could  have  trusted  him  in  that 
way,  without  the  naming  of  "trust":  no  one  else  could 
have  been  so  generous,  so  free,  so  direct,  and  so  proud. 
There  was  the  same  pride  in  his  neglect  of  moral  con- 
vention as  in  his  neglect  of  his  clothes:  the  same  pride 
that  prompted,  unknown.  Lawrance  thought  of  the 
whispered  confabulation  there  might  have  been:  "I 
trust  you,  my  boy,  I'm  sure  you'll  play  fair."  If  he'd 
said  that,  he  wouldn't  have  trusted  him,  he  wouldn't 
have  been  sure !  No,  they  wouldn  't  plan  details.  That 
was  Lawrance 's  own  affair.  But,  as  he  sat  on  in  the 
silence,  his  conscience  stirred  at  the  beck  of  his  nerves. 
Had  he,  too,  been  generous?  He  hadn't  thought  of 
Doris — ^hadn't  thought  of  what  it  would  be  like  for  the 
rest  of  the  family  after  Olga  had  gone.    With  Olga's 


A  CHASTE  MAN  171 

departure  the  whole  household  had  been  blotted  out  for 
him.  Doris  ought  to  go,  too,  Olga  ought  to  have  some 
one  with  her — of  course.  ...  He  was,  out  of  simple 
nervous  reaction,  sharply  afflicted  by  the  idea  that  his 
plan  was  impracticable,  that  he  had  been  rushed  on  to 
an  absurdity  on  the  spur  of  his  emotions.  What  would 
Olga  do — a  young  girl  staying  alone  in  some  little  hotel 
or  boarding-house?  What  would  people  think? 
Mightn't  she  be  exposed? —  Lawrance  pulled  himself 
up  in  resentment  at  the  meanness  and  the  futility  of 
these  reflections.  They  were  common  and  cowardly  and 
constricted.  Had  he  no  wit,  no  will?  And  wasn't  it 
the  great  thing,  the  only  thing,  to  get  her  out  at  any 
cost,  at  once? 

*'We  had  better  not  wait,"  he  declared  suddenly. 

"You're  right.     I'll  go  and  fetch  them." 

*  *  No.    I  will.    I  '11  bring  them  here.    Where 's  Doris  ? ' ' 

**At  the  'Tivoli.'  She's  selling  programmes  there 
now.    Didn  't  she  tell  you  ?     She  won 't  be  back  till  late. ' ' 

Lawrance  barely  reflected  that  it  was  very  unlike 
Doris  not  to  have  talked  a  lot  about  the  "Tivoli."  He 
was  immensely  relieved  that  she  was  out  of  the  house: 
his  conscience,  that  had  constrained  him  to  ask  where 
she  was  because  he  so  very  much  didn't  want  to  take  her 
with  Olga,  was  satisfied;  but  he  had  to  say:  ''Won't  it 
be  pretty  bad  for  all  of  you  without  her  ? ' ' 

"Not  at  all.  Much  better  than  before."  The  old 
man  looked  at  him,  surprised. 

"That  man's  gone  out,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes.    That's  all  right." 

"Oh,  I  think  I  could  deal  with  him!" 

Lawrance    disliked    himself   for   his   bragging   tone. 


172  A  CHASTE  MAN 

which  came  from  sheer  nervousness,  against  his  will  or 
feeling.  The  Mariner,  putting  a  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
showed  that  he  understood. 

"You  go  for  them,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "And — ^per- 
haps— better  not  smash  Tofton;  better  not.  I  didn't 
really  mean  what  I  said,  you  know."  He  was  agitated. 
"Oh — and  there's  one  thing.  When  Olga  is  yours — 
when  she  is — take  her.  It's  best.  Remember  I  told 
you." 

Lawrance  looked  away  and  reddened.  He  had  an  as- 
tonishing sense  of  inferiority  and  of  blindness.  He 
groped,  distracted.  What  he  wanted  to  say  was: 
"Ah,  but  I'm  not  the  man  you  think  me!"  But  the 
words,  so  sure  of  misconstruction  by  any  one  who  did 
not  know  all  that  was  in  him,  were  patently  vain.  He 
left  the  room  in  haste. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


^   ■  ^HERE   was  no  air  of  a  conspiracy.    "Well, 
*         Olga?"  Lawrance  said,  after  Mr.  Flynn  had 


1 


finished  telling  them  and  she  did  not  speak. 

She  went  towards  him;  "Oh,  Lorrie!"  she  said.  She 
stopped  short,  both  in  her  movement  and  her  speech: 
she  stood  near  him  with  drooped  head.  She  looked 
amazingly  small  and  young  and  white;  she  was  like  a 
straight  young  white  tree,  and  though  she  was  still, 
there  came  to  Lawrance  a  sense  of  trembling  branches. 

He  was  triumphant  that  she  had,  naturally  and  at  that 
moment,  called  him  "Lorrie";  it  could  not  be  "Uncle 
Lorrie ' '  any  more,  he  knew  that. 

*  *  You  '11  see, ' '  he  said ;  "  it  will  be  all  right.  Don 't  be 
afraid  of  anything!" 

"And  there  you're  right!"  The  Mariner  got  up  and 
began  to  shake  off  his  overcoat.  Mrs.  Flynn  helped  him. 
"I'm  warmed  with  you,  Lorrie!  He's  right,  isn't  he? 
It's  courage  we  need,  and  then  we're  safe!  Aren't  we 
right,  Patsey,  my  darling!"  He  took  his  glass. 
' '  Freshen  her  up !  Yours,  too !  Stirrup-cup,  you  know. 
Why,  Patsey!" 

Mrs.  Flynn  was  in  sudden  tears.  "Olga — come — " 
Her  words  were  in  a  harsh  choking  gurgle.  Lawrance, 
after  looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  lowered  his  eyes.  He 
had  never  seen  her  cry  before,  and  he  could  not  endure 
it.     She  did  not  cover  her  face,  her  misery  was  naked 

173 


174  A  CHASTE  MAN 

there  and  hideous.  It  was  the  extreme  of  sorrow's 
ugliness ;  being  pitiable  it  was  also  dreadful  to  him.  Her 
contortions  were  those  of  the  lowest  burlesque  mimicry, 
her  face  was  like  a  mask  fashioned  by  a  vulgarian  cari- 
caturist. She  made  these  zany  mouths  at  grief  and 
cruelty  and  pain,  and  because  tragedy  had  no  dignity  nor 
beauty  in  her,  because  it  was  stripped  of  all  symbolic 
alleviation,  it  was  shot  terrifyingly  off  from  all  that  a 
young  man,  ignorant  of  it,  had  supposed  it  to  be. 
Muriel's  crying  was  quite  different,  it  warped  her 
pathetically,  but  it  was  not  tragic.  Lawrance  had  never 
before  come  to  this  detail  in  the  expression  of  sorrow, 
never  thought  of  it  as  existing.  If  he  thought  of  a  sor- 
rowful woman  his  vision  was  of  the  tears  of  a  Niobe. 

"Why  doesn't  she  turn  her  head?"  he  kept  thinking, 
**why  doesn't  she — poor — "  Olga  was  by  her:  he  did 
not  like  it  that  Olga  should  be  seeing  her,  seeing  those 
distorted  lines  and  pulled  down  edges,  that  look  of  the 
mouth — so  horribly  resembling  laughter;  those  eyes,  not 
like  themselves,  eyes  that  oozed,  half-shut.  But  Olga 
did  not  mind  as  he  did ;  he  could  see  that.  She  was  not 
driven  off  in  his  masculine  way.  She  put  her  arms 
round  her  mother,  and  pressed  her  face  to  hers :  the  act 
seemed  heroic  to  Lawrance ;  its  heroism  broke  through  his 
repulsion.     Mrs.  Flynn  clutched  her  girl. 

*'It  won't  be  long,"  she  gasped.    "You  11  see — " 

Olga  drew  from  her,  with  her  pale  cheeks  stained  by 
those  tears.  She  touched  her  own  cheek  with  her  fingers, 
she  looked  wonderingly. 

"I  can't  cry."  She  spoke  so  low  that  the  words 
hardly  reached  Lawrance.  "There's  so  much  else. 
That's  why,  I  suppose." 

Old  Flynn  came  between  her  and  his  wife.    "Dear 


A  CHASTE  MAN  175 

old  girl,"  he  said,  "darling  Patsey.  I  love  you.  We 
know  how  it  is. ' '  He  took  her  hands,  one  in  each  of  his. 
She  pursed  her  crooked  mouth,  and  gulped  again,  but 
with  a  slower  movement  of  her  throat.  *  *  Go  up  and  get 
your  things,  Olga." 

"How  is  she  going?"  Mrs.  Flynn  strained  her  gaze 
to  her  daughter.  "Don't  wear  your  hair  down:  you 
mustn  't — ^you  can 't.  Do  it  like  you  did  with  Doris  that 
time  you  dressed  up — you  remember."  She  spoke  rap- 
idly, hard  driven.  "And  here — " — she  tugged  at  her 
finger —  "Oh,  I  can't  get  it  off,  my  finger's  swollen." 
The  effort  veered  her  self-control.  Wrenching  the  ring 
she  broke  the  flesh  of  her  knuckle  and  the  blood  sprang. 
"Here  it  is!" 

"You  mean  I'm  to  wear  it?"  Olga  started. 

"Ah,  Olga  darling,  it's  the  ring  that  keeps  your  cour- 
age! Don't  you  see?  When  you're  alone,  the  ring's  a 
friend  for  you."  The  old  man  had  released  Mrs. 
Flynn 's  hands:  he  was  pressing  his  blue-spotted  cotton 
handkerchief  to  her  hurt  finger. 

"Well — "  The  girl  hesitated,  then  she  went  over  to 
Lawrance.  She  gave  him  the  ring,  and  held  out  her 
left  hand  to  him.     "  You— ' ' 

He  put  the  gold  ring  on  her  second  finger,  without 
holding  her  hand.  He  remembered  his  promise  to 
Muriel.     "What  would  this  be?"  he  thought. 

"They're  all  girls,  Michael!"  He  heard  the  woman's 
voice  cry  out.  "  I  've  all  of  them  girls.  I  wish  I  hadn  't ! 
It  isn't  right — it'll  never  he  right !  And  I've  tried  such 
a  long  time — "  She  sat  down  and  put  her  head  between 
her  hands.  Lawrance,  looking  up  from  Olga,  saw  the 
black  tight  coil  of  hair,  grey-streaked,  with  one  strand 
loosened  and  a  hair-pin  that  was  coming  out.    "Give 


176  A  CHASTE  MAN 

pleasure — ^yes — they  do — and  they  take  pain.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  money — "  She  raised  her  head. 
"You  must  go,  Olga." 

"Mother  dear."  Lawranee  went  and  stood  by  her  as 
Olga  left.    "Don't  worry.    You  know  I — " 

He  stopped  and  took  her  hand.  He  felt  sure  she  did 
not  really  trust  him,  that  the  case  was  not  isolated  and 
individualized  for  her  as  it  was  for  old  Flynn,  that  she 
saw  him  in  the  main  a  young  man,  accidentally  Oliver 
Lawranee,  their  friend — a  young  man  going  off  with  her 
girl  who  was  so  much  a  girl,  and  whom  he  knew  she 
loved  far  more  than  she  loved  Doris  or  Marjorie.  Yes, 
she  was  throwing  her  Olga  perilously  from  a  burning 
house,  that  was  what  she  thought :  that  was  obvious.  He 
must  make  her  understand.  He  wondered  what  the 
whole  of  Tof ton's  formidable  power  upon  them  was; 
surely  it  wasn't  from  money  only,  he  couldn't  believe  it: 
especially  now  that  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Flynn. —  And 
there  was  his  mother,  sitting  on  in  her  drawing-room  at 
Malstowe,  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

"You  needn't  be  unhappy,  really — "  He  stopped 
again,  afiflicted,  as  he  always  was,  by  the  inadequacy  of 
his  speech  and  his  tone.     The  old  man  interrupted  him. 

* '  Come  now,  Lorrie,  we  must  let  the  women  cry  if  they 
want  to!  No  harm  in  that!  Your  drink's  waiting  for 
you."  He  swallowed  some  of  his  own,  with  the  famil- 
iar machine-like  motion  of  the  straight  sparsely  fleshed 
hairy  bones  of  his  neck. 

"Well,  all  I  mean  is — ^you  know  me,  you — I  swear  to 
you  she 's  safe  with  me ! " 

"You're  doing  a  great  deal  for  us,  Lorrie,  don't  think 
that  we—" 

Mrs.  Flynn  looked  at  him  with,  for  a  moment,  her  old 


A  CHASTE  MAN  177 

affectionate  and  roguish  glance.  Answering  as  though 
he  had  merely  promised  good  care  for  Olga  she  seemed 
to  miss  the  meaning  of  his  declaration.  She  replied  to 
his  attempt  to  put  her  mind  at  rest  by  quieting  him 
herself.  None  the  less,  Lawrance  felt  tremendously 
bound  by  his  pledge,  far  more  bound  than  by  the  other 
which  he  had  given  to  Muriel  on  demand. 

"There's  no  question  of  gratitude  between  us,"  he 
said  rather  priggishly,  though  indeed  there  was  nothing 
priggish  about  him  then.     ''Besides,  I — " 

"You  drink  your  whiskey,  Lorrie!  There's  some 
poetry  I  read  once,  wish  I  could  remember  it — good 
poetry,  none  of  your  Irish  sniffle — ^some  book  in  the  ship 's 
Library.  Something  about  standing  up  and  treading 
everything  to  dust."  The  Mariner  put  his  knotty  fore- 
finger to  the  side  of  his  nose.  "  'He  stands  up  and  he 
treads  to  dust' — that  was  how  it  started.  'Fear — and 
mistrust' — that  was  the  rhyme.  Then  there  was  some- 
thing about  knowledge  and  patience  and  strength — fine 
lines;  the  right  stuff.  Wish  I  could  remember  it. — 
'Binds  for  sandals  on  his  feet — '  You  know,  it  isn't 
always  the  things  that  seem  right  that  turn  out  right. 
The  Church  is  wise  there.  You  have  to  take  everything 
into  account.  Ah,  the  Jesuits  know  a  thing  or  two !  I 
never  believed  in  general  principles —  You've  got  to 
know  when  to  tread  'em  to  dust,  along  with  the  rest! 
We  know  what  we  're  about,  Patsey,  don 't  we  ? " 

She  gave  no  affirmation. 

"Yes!"  he  went  on,  flashing  his  old  eyes.  "And  now 
we  go  gathering  grapes  from  thorns,  grapes  from  thorns ! 
—Ah!" 

He  broke  excitedly  on  his  final  falsetto.  Lawrance 
looked  at  him,  puzzled:  more  puzzled  still  by  a  certain 


178  A  CHASTE  MAN 

gleam  of  furtiveness  that  was  shot  through  the  old  man's 
glance  at  him,  furtiveness  not  free  from  fear.  Mrs. 
Flynn,  erect  at  the  table,  sat  with  hands  folded,  and  with- 
out a  look  for  either  of  the  two  men.  She  seemed  to  have 
cut  off  every  current  of  communication. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Lawrance  went,  and 
found  Olga  there,  with  her  coat  and  hat  on,  and  in  her 
hand  an  old  Gladstone  bag.  "I  don't  want  to  go  in  the 
room  again, ' '  she  said  at  once.    "  I  'm  ready. ' ' 

Lawrance  noticed  instantly  the  effect  of  the  changed 
arrangement  of  her  hair.  The  curve  of  her  neck  was 
new,  so  was  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  and  the  set  of  her 
head:  he  was  startled  by  the  white  unfamiliar  flesh  be- 
hind and  below  her  ears;  it  was  differently  white.  He 
was  overcome  by  this  strangeness,  then  Olga's  eyes  and 
her  lips  reassured  him  of  her,  and  he  was  excited  by  the 
blend  of  the  strangeness  with  the  reassurance.  It  dis- 
concerted him  that  he  should  feel  her  so  keenly,  that  he 
should  be  drawn  thus :  he  tried  to  reject  his  emotions,  he 
was  violently  ashamed  of  harbouring  them  at  such  a 
time.  But  in  his  effort  towards  rejection,  in  his  shame, 
he  was  struck  heavily  by  her  looking  younger  than  ever 
with  her  hair  "up";  she  was  dangerously  and  unnat- 
urally and  defencelessly  young. 

He  looked  back  into  the  room.  The  old  man  stood  tall 
and  lank  before  the  fireplace :  the  woman  had  turned  her 
chair  from  the  table  so  that  her  back,  erect  still,  met 
Lawrance 's  view.  Mr.  Flynn,  seeing  his  friend  put  on 
his  overcoat,  saluted  him  with  raised  hand. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  next  morning  Lawrance  was  called  on  the 
telephone  a  few  minutes  after  his  arrival 
at  the  Office.  He  heard  the  Mariner's  voice, 
queerly  sonorous  and  metallic:  ''I  beg  of  you  to  come 
at  once  and  bring  Olga. ' '  Mr.  Flynn  seemed  not  to  hear 
the  young  man's  agitated  question;  he  repeated:  "I 
beg  of  you,"  while  Lawrance  was  stammering  it.  *'It 
is  urgent,"  he  added. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,  but  won't  you  tell  me  what's 
happened  ? ' ' 

"Tof ton's  dead.  Found  him  this  morning  with  his 
throat  cut."    Mr.  Flynn  rang  off. 

As  Lawrance  had  his  overcoat  half  on,  Mr.  Inge  ap- 
peared, panting  as  usual  from  his  walk  up  the  two  flights 
of  stairs. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "just  arrived,  eh?"  and  then,  aston- 
ished, he  saw  that  the  young  man  was  not  taking  his 
coat  off,  but  putting  it  on.  This  was  so  unprecedented 
at  such  an  hour  that  it  completely  took  the  rest  of  Mr. 
Inge's  wind.    He  gasped,  speechless. 

"Where's  my  hat?"  Lawrance  exclaimed. 

' '  Your  hat  ? ' '    Inge  stared  at  him.     "  What 's  up  ?  " 

"I've  got  to  go.    Where's  my  hat?" 

"How  the  devil  should  I  know  where  you  put  your 
blooming  hat?    Why  have  you  to  go?" 

' '  Britton ! ' '  Lawrance  called  the  clerk.  ' '  Have  you 
seen  my  hat? —    Mr.  Inge!"    He  had  not  seemed  con- 

179 


180  A  CHASTE  MAN 

scious  before  of  that  full  presence.  "You  haven't  got 
it,  have  you?    I  mean — " 

* '  God  bless  the  boy !    D  'you  think  it 's  up  my  sleeve  ? ' ' 

"Will  you  lend  me  yours?" 

The  large  man  stared  again,  then  he  burst  out  loudly 
laughing.  It  was  too  much,  this  earnest  intentness  of 
young  Lawrance  in  demanding  the  loan  of  a  hat  that 
would  be  three  or  four  sizes  too  big  for  him. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  guyed  in  the  streets,  man?"  he 
gurgled. 

"No,  but  I  have  to  get  out.  I  tell  you  I  have  to  get 
out!" 

"Eighto.  Don't  lose  your  hair  about  it!  What's 
the  trouble?" 

"Sorry."  Lawrance  recovered  himself.  "It's  only 
— well,  it's  urgent.     I  have  to  go." 

"All  right.    Be  back  again  to-day?" 

"I  can't  tell.  I  don't  think  so —  Look  here,  Mr. 
Inge,  will  you  lend  me  your  hat  ? ' ' 

Inge  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's  a  sacrifice,"  he 
said.  "But  of  course,  if  you  insist — "  Lawrance  was 
standing  with  outstretched  hand  and  a  fixed  expression. 
"Well,  here  you  are.  Wipe  your  nose  before  you  put  it 
on!" 

In  a  few  seconds  Lawrance  was  in  the  street.  He 
took  a  taxi,  telling  the  driver  to  go  to  the  nearest  Hamp- 
stead  Tube.  Olga  he  had  left  the  night  before  in  a 
small  hotel  near  Euston  Station.  In  the  cab  he  tor- 
mented himself  by  trying  to  decide  if  it  would  be  quicker 
to  drive  the  whole  way  to  the  hotel  or  to  finish  the 
journey  by  Tube.  For  nearly  five  minutes  he  kept  won- 
dering if  the  driver  would  answer  him  honestly  if  he 
asked  him.    All  the  while  his  absurdly  large  felt  hat 


A  CHASTE  MAN  181 

was  falling  over  his  forehead  or  over  his  ears;  he  con- 
tinually pushed  it  back,  he  took  it  and  tried  to  squeeze 
it  up:  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  lay  it  on  the  seat. 
At  last  he  decided  that  he  couldn't  stand  the  delay  of 
buying  a  ticket  and  going  up  and  down  in  lifts;  he 
lowered  the  window  and  shouted  to  the  man,  who  didn't 
hear  him.  Then  he  put  his  head  further  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  as  he  was  shouting,  more  loudly  than  before, 
Mr,  Inge's  hat  fell  into  the  street.  Lawrance,  at  this 
tragic  hour,  seemed  destined  to  be  pursued  by  the  spir- 
its of  opera-bouffe.  But  now  the  driver  stopped  and 
a  newsboy  came  running  up,  grinning,  with  the  mud- 
stained  hat.  The  driver  looked  round,  grinning  too. 
*'Lost  yer  'at,  sir?"  he  said.  The  man  and  the  boy 
grinned  at  one  another,  united  in  sympathy  with  the 
eternal  jest  of  a  hat  blown  off  and  having  to  be  run 
after  in  the  street.  The  urchin,  Lawrance  noticed,  was 
almost  incredibly  pretty,  so  pretty  that  it  seemed  he 
must  have  faded  long  ago,  like  roses :  London  street  life 
you  would  have  thought  bound  to  tarnish  him  in  half 
an  hour.  He  was  prettier  for  a  boy  even  than  Letty 
was  for  a  girl.  Lawrance  did  not  think  of  Olga  in  com- 
parison; he  never  connected  Olga  with  prettiness.  He 
resented  the  boy's  adorable  looks;  they  seemed  mis- 
placed, incongruous  at  that  moment.  He  gave  him 
some  coppers  and  put  on  the  muddy  hat  at  once.  ''Ley- 
ton  Hotel!"  he  called  to  the  driver.  "It's  near  Eus- 
ton. "  "  Lyetonotel ! ' '  The  boy  gave  a  grimace  that  his 
inordinate  beauty  perfectly  withstood.  "Cost  'im  four- 
pence  ! "  he  yelled  as  he  broke  away. 

The  taxi  went  on,  and  Lawrance  wondered  at  the  blind 
lavishness  of  Nature,  at  her  barren  bestowals.  Mean- 
while the  mud  dripped  down  over  his  forehead,  and 


182  A  CHASTE  MAN 

blended  with  the  remains  of  his  bruises.  He  took  off 
his  hat,  at  last,  and  wiped  his  face,  inadequately. 

He  found  Olga  eating  eggs  and  bacon  in  her  bedroom, 
with  a  book  propped  up  in  front  of  her. 

"You're  all  right?"  he  asked  with  hurried  embarrass- 
ment. He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door,  holding  off 
from  her. 

Olga  nodded.  She  tightened  her  lips,  and  the  comers 
of  them  drew  down.  Her  eyes  laughed.  "Where  did 
you  get  that  hat?"  she  asked,  and  laughed  outright, 

"Upon  my  word!"  He  felt,  and  looked,  bewildered 
and  foolish, 

'  *  It  isn  't  yours,  is  it  ? " 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed  without  con- 
trol, her  mouth  open  wide  for  gleams  of  her  brittle  small 
teeth.    Lawrance  watched  her,  not  knowing  what  to  say, 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  " — er — of  course  it  isn't  mine." 
He  wondered  why  there  should  be  such  inherent  comical 
properties  in  a  hat.  This  intrusion  made  him  vexed  and 
impatient.  "I've  come  to  take  you  back,"  he  declared. 
He  was  relieved  to  be  able  to  bring  her  to  a  different 
sense  of  the  occasion. 

"Oh!"  This  stopped  her  laughter.  "What?  now? 
At  once,  Lorrie,  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  it's  all  right  now.  That  man — he  isn't  there 
any  more. ' ' 

"What,  they've  got  rid  of  him!" 

Lawrance  turned  his  head.  He  was  chilled  by  these 
sinister  words  from  the  unknowing  girl.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said.     "But  it's  all  right.     He  isn't  there." 

"You  don't  seem  to  know  very  much — " 

"Well,  I  only  heard  over  the  telephone.  That — ^that 
was  all  I  heard,  practically  all." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  183 

He  couldn't  tell  her  here,  not  for  her  sake,  but  for  his 
own.  It  was  their  room,  though  she  had  been  there  all 
the  night  alone.  Still,  he  had  brought  her;  the  room 
had  been  taken  as  for  them  both.  Lawrance  refused  to 
associate  it  with  such  a  monstrous  revelation.  He 
walked  to  the  nearer  of  the  two  windows  and  looked  out 
on  the  broad  dull  street,  a  street  that  was  full  of  little 
hotels  like  this  one,  most  of  them  led  up  to  by  a  short 
and  narrow  flight  of  steps.  The  morning  was  grey,  the 
rain  was  beginning  again  in  a  thin  drizzle. 

"Must  we  go  at  once?" 

Lawrance  heard  the  question  dimly.  Inertia  had 
seized  him.  He  could  have  stood  like  that  by  the  win- 
dow, watching  the  people  and  the  cabs  and  the  motor- 
busses,  on  and  on. 

"Well,  must  we?"  the  girl  repeated.  "Can't  I  fin- 
ish this  chapter  first?" 

* '  I  suppose  so. ' ' 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  closely.  What  a  mania 
she  had  for  reading !  She  was  intent  on  her  book.  Har- 
rison Ainsworth's  "Old  St,  Paul's"  he  saw  it  was, — 
paper-covered,  as  usual.  On  a  table  by  her  side  were 
three  other  Ainsworths:  "The  Tower  of  London," 
*  *  Jack  Sheppard, "  and  "  The  Admirable  Crichton. ' '  He 
remembered  that  he  had  promised  to  get  them  bound  for 
her.  She  had  wanted  them  bound  in  black,  with  gilt 
lettering.  The  Gladstone  bag  was  open;  he  could  see 
other  books  in  it:  de  Maupassant's  "Yvette"  was  on  the 
top.  So  many  books !  That  was  why  he  had  found  the 
bag  so  heavy,  Lawrance  had  read  "Yvette";  he  won- 
dered how  far  Olga  could  understand  it.  She  was  not 
ignorant  of  facts,  of  course;  yet  her  innocence  was  con- 
vincing at  all  points;  she  was  far  more  innocent  than 


184  A  CHASTE  MAN 

most  of  the  girls  who  knew  nothing.  Poor  Olga !  What 
would  happen  to  her?  What  would  be  done  to  her? 
Lawrance  saw,  too  clearly,  at  that  moment,  that  he 
would  be  much  better  for  her  than  any  one  else  she  was 
at  all  likely  to  come  to:  he  dismissed  that  clear  vision. 
He  bit  his  hot  lip,  and  repeated  to  himself  that  his  hands 
were  irretrievably  tied,  grossly  knotted  at  more  points 
than  one.  .  .  .  He  had  not  noticed  before  that  her  bed 
was  made,  that  her  little  plain  white  nightdress  was 
lying  folded  by  the  pillow.  No  doubt  she  had  done  that 
herself.  The  basin  was  full  of  water  in  which  she  had 
washed.  Her  brush,  on  the  dressing-table,  had  in  it  some 
dark  fine  wisps  of  her  hair.  Her  long  plaid  coat  was 
hanging  on  the  wall.  To-morrow  there  would  be  no 
trace  of  her.  Probably  some  man  and  his  wife  would 
be  in  this  room,  perhaps  a  couple  on  their  way  back  to 
Stafford  or  Crewe  or  Manchester, — or  a  man  and  his 
mistress.  The  agony  of  his  not  being  able  to  take  her 
grew  on  him,  obliterating  the  fading  images  of  the  dead 
Tofton  and  the  family  awaiting  their  return  in  the 
Glasden  Road.  He  felt  that  it  would  all  happen  over 
again,  and  again,  always  with  the  same  void  ending  of 
loss.  That  walk  from  her  house  to  the  Camden  Town 
Tube,  that  irrelevant  physical  strain  at  his  heart  that 
carrying  her  bag  gave  him,  that  short  Tube  journey  to 
Euston,  that  walk  to  the  street  of  the  little  hotels,  his 
haphazard  choice  of  the  "Leyton,"  her  few  scattered 
remarks  and  his, — all  was  in  the  far  past,  too,  and  in 
the  far  future.  So  was  their  admittance:  the  little 
lame  percipient  French  waiter  in  the  background,  with 
his  black  moustache;  the  rather  pretty  red-haired  girl 
who  showed  them  to  the  room,  going  on  ahead  to  light 
the  gas — her  confident  and  daring  air — the  quick  pro- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  185 

fessional  look-over  that  she  gave  them — ^her  finality  in 
leaving  them  alone  together.  She  had  brought  towels 
for  two. 

Lawrance  had  left  very  soon, — a  bad,  docked,  uneasy 
leavetaking.  He  had  not  kissed  her.  It  seemed  gro- 
tesque, undignified,  to  take  so  little  when  he  was  giving 
up  so  much.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go,  at  least  not 
then:  he  knew  that.  He  was  disappointing  her  un- 
framed  innocent  expectations;  he  was  making  her  leave 
off  in  the  middle  of  the  chapter.  She  was  a  little  afraid, 
he  thought, — not  much.  .  .  .  He  had  left  the  hotel  as 
silently  as  he  could,  hoping  that  no  one  would  notice 
him.  There  was  some  shadow  of  satisfaction  in  feeling 
that  the  people  of  the  house  would  suppose  that  he  had 
stayed. 

Olga  put  her  book  down. 

"Did  you  sleep  all  right?"  he  inquired. 

*'Not  very  well.  It  was  strange.  The  bed  was  so 
big.    I  wish  you  had  stayed. ' ' 

**0h,  Olga!"    His  pain  cried  out. 

*  *  Oh,  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  altogether ! —  I  sup- 
pose you  couldn't,  though.  Of  course  I  know  you  had 
to  get  back."  She  regarded  him  gravely.  ''But  you 
might  have  stayed  longer,  all  the  same." 

Her  nostrils  quivered  a  little:  Lawrance  remembered 
that  at  one  time  he  had  thought  them  excessively  arched : 
he  did  not  think  so  now.  Every  physical  characteristic 
of  hers  harmoniously  entered  into  her  beloved  allure; 
everything  would  have  been  the  right  assurance  to  him, 
had  he  been  free.  Her  deep  lashes  fluttered,  alive,  above 
her  smooth  and  tranquil  cheek,  above  her  round  chin, 
very  girlish,  her  caught-in  underlip, — all  her  long  and 
lovely  face.    Her  virginity,  in  its  last  and  strongest 


186  A  CHASTE  MAN 

phase, — ^yet  still  so  unconsciously  held! — seemed  over- 
flowing, deciduous  through  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  figure. 
It  flowed  unknowing,  and  with  purpose.  She  rose,  went 
to  Lawrance,  took  the  lapels  of  his  coat. 

"Oh,  you  weren't  nice  to  me!"  she  said,  with  a  sud- 
den vivid  revealing  gaze,  most  hard  for  him  to  bear. 

*  *  I  couldn  't  help  it !  If  you — if  you  knew  more,  you  'd 
know  that  I  couldn 't  help  it ! " 

"Your  forehead's  all  over  mud!  Such  a  sight! 
Come  along ! ' ' 

She  took  him  to  the  washstand,  dipped  her  sponge  in 
the  clean  water  that  was  left  in  the  jug. 

"Hold  your  head  over!"  She  mopped  his  face. 
"That  won't  do;  you  want  soap  as  well." 

She  soaped  her  fingers,  and  Lawrance  felt  them,  long 
and  mobile,  on  his  forehead:  "The  soap,"  he  thought, 
'  *  that  she  used  this  morning. ' ' 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,"  she  laughed,  "that 
you're  always  getting  into  trouble  lately?  You  never 
told  me  how  you  got  so  bruised,  nor  why  you  had 
to  borrow  somebody  else's  hat.  Such  a  hat!"  She 
laughed  again.  "You  might  have  borrowed  one  the 
right  size ! ' '  She  picked  at  his  sleeve ;  the  action  seemed 
the  most  intimately  affectionate  that  Lawrance  had  ever 
known. 

*  *  I  came  away  from  the  OflBce  in  a  hurry  and  couldn 't 
find  mine. —  Look  here,  we  ought  to  hurry  now.  I'll 
help  you  pack. ' ' 

"It  won't  take  a  minute.  "Why  ought  we  to  be  in  a 
hurry?  I  don't  want  to, — ^not  now  I  know  it'll  be  all 
right  to  go  home. ' ' 

"Well — your  father  seemed  to  think — " 

"It's  wonderful  of  them  to  have  got  rid  of  him;  I 


A  CHASTE  MAN  187 

never  thought  they  would.  But  I  knew  I  shouldn't  stay 
here  very  long.     I  couldn  't  have,  could  I  ? " 

"No,  I  should  have  arranged  something  else.  I'd 
been  thinking — of  course  you  couldn't  have  stayed." 

**I  was  wondering  what  they'd  have  thought.  I  sup- 
pose they'd  have  thought  you  were  my  husband,  and 
had  night  work,  or  were  a  commercial  traveller  or  some- 
thing. But  I  don't  look  married,  do  I?  Of  course  you 
are.  I  should  know  you  were  married,  I  think.  It  does 
make  a  difference. ' ' 

"Suppose  we  were  married?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  should  like  it.  I  don't  really  know, 
but  I  think  I  should, — if  you  were  nice  to  me." 

"Oh,  Lord!    I  would  be!" 

"You're  so  funny.  I  was  angry  with  you  yesterday. 
I  've  never  been  angry  with  you  before.  You  were  quite 
different.  I  thought  it  would  be  like  it  was  in  the  cab 
that  time,  only  much  better  than  that,  because  I  like 
you  more  now.    I  don't  see  why  you  didn't  kiss  me." 

"Olga,  you  don't  understand!  Don't  you  see  I'd 
promised.     I'd  promised  your  mother — " 

"What,  not  to  kiss  me?    You  always  have." 

"I  know,  but — oh,  you  don't  understand!" 

"Did  you  want  to,  then?" 

* '  Of  course  I  wanted  to. ' ' 

"Do  it  now,  then!  I  can't  stand  you  being  so  solemn 
over  nothing.  Do  it  now!"  She  took  the  towel  away 
from  him,  held  his  hands,  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes, 
laughing. 

"We  must  go. —    We  ought  to  have  gone  before." 

"There's  time  enough  for  you  to  give  me  a  kiss." 

* '  There 's  not  time  enough  for  anything  1 ' ' 

Lawrance  felt  acutely  that  he  was  in  an  absurd  posi- 


188  A  CHASTE  MAN 

tion,  thrust  into  this  role  of  Joseph.  Divided  between 
humiliation  and  desire,  he  clung  to  his  native  stubborn- 
ness. He  did  not  want  to  kiss  her  that  morning,  when 
he  had  not  kissed  her  last  night.  He  was  passionate 
for  the  evasion  of  this  compromise  between  all  and  noth- 
ing. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?"     She  still  held  his  hands. 

**It's  you  who  ought  to  be  afraid," 

**Why?—  Yes,  I  know."  She  looked  troubled. 
"I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  I  couldn't  be,  ever!  Don't 
you  know  that?    I  wish — " 

"You  wonder  why  I  didn't  kiss  you  last  night." 
Lawrance  had  hardly  heard  her  last  words.  ' '  Well,  you 
wouldn't  wonder  if  you  understood.  If  I'd  kissed  you 
I  couldn't  have  stopped  there.  I  couldn't  have  trusted 
myself — " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  trust  yourself.  But  why 
couldn't  you?  And  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?  It's 
silly.     Oh,  I  don't  see  why!" 

"Surely  you  didn't  want — " 

* '  I  want  you  to  kiss  me. ' ' 

"But,  Olga,— I've  told  you—" 

"It  would  have  been  nice,  wouldn't  it,  if  I  could  have 
thought:  'He's  fond  of  me,  and  he'll  come  tomor- 
row.'—  And  this  morning  isn't  last  night,  anyhow. 
You  wouldn't  do  anything  so  very  dreadful  now,  would 
you?" 

He  broke  away.  He  couldn't  stand  up  to  her  any 
longer.  "What  I'm  going  to  do  is  to  pack  your  bag," 
he  said,  trembling. 

She  turned  at  once,  and  began  to  squeeze  out  her 
sponge.  "I  took  a  lot  of  books,  didn't  I?  I  thought  I 
should  have  to  read  all  the  time  you  were  at  the  Office. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  189 

I'm  tired  of  love-stories.  If  I  loved  any  one,  I  wouldn't 
love  in  the  least  like  that.  I  don't  believe  any  one 
would.  Would  you? —  Oh,  why  did  you  put  down  in 
that  book  last  night  *Mr.  and  Mrs.  Deavitt'?  He 
wouldn't  like  that  much.  He's  never  going  to  marry: 
he  doesn't  care  for  any  girls  older  than  twelve!" 

**Yes,  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  that.  It  was  the  first 
name  that  came  into  my  head — just  having  met  him,  you 
see.  It  wasn't  the  right  thing  to  do  at  all — I  didn't 
think—" 

*'0h,  it  was  a  joke!"  She  threw  the  sponge  into  the 
bag,  impatiently.  **You  are  so  serious  about  every- 
thing !  It's  all  the  more  of  a  joke  because  there  couldn't 
be  a  Mrs.  Deavitt. ' '  She  drew  back  from  the  mirror  and 
began  arranging  her  hair.  "I  hate  these  pins.  I'll  be 
glad  to  have  it  down  again.  You  don't  like  it  up,  do 
you?" 

' '  Olga. ' '  He  looked  at  her  in  the  glass.  * '  You  're  an- 
gry with  me  because  you  don't  know.  I  wish  I  could 
explain;  I  wish  I  knew  what  you  felt — exactly — about 
everything. " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  feel!"  She  frowned,  more 
heavily  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  ' '  Don 't  tease  me ! " 
Her  eyes  flashed  and  were  vexed.  ** What's  the  use  of 
wondering  what  you  feel  and  why  you  feel  it?  That 
isn't  important;  the  important  thing  is  to  go — straight 
— on!"  Her  emphasis  was  determined,  fierce  in  vigour. 
**I'm  not  going  to  waste  time  any  more,  wondering. 
It's  stupid.  I'm  not  going  to  any  more.  I'll  tell  you 
why  you  weren't  nice  to  me,  though,  taking  me  away 
out  of  charity,  I  suppose  you  did,  making  me  feel  it, 
making  me  feel  lonely,  so  that  I  couldn  't  think :  *  Well, 
he 's  fond  of  me,  anyhow,  and  he  '11  come  tomorrow. '  ' ' 


190  A  CHASTE  MAN 

' '  Olga,  you  don 't  really  think  I  took  you  away  out  of 
charity,  and  that  I'm  not  fond  of  you — " 

"Well."  She  turned.  " — ^You  took  me  away  be- 
cause you  were  friends  with  Father  and  Mother,  not  for 
any  nice  reason — " 

"  'Nice  reason'!" 

"Well,  a  nice  reason  would  have  been  that  you  liked 
me  and  wanted  to  kiss  me  and  hug  me  and  love  me — 
there!  That's  a  reason  that  has  something  to  do  with 
me.  I'm  left  out  of  it  all — I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like 
you!    You  hurt  me  very  much  and  you're  horrid!" 

Lawrance  had  not  seen  her  cry  since  she  was  ten  or 
eleven.  Now,  as  then,  she  cried  in  a  suppressed  way, 
with  little  quiverings  of  the  lip,  and  tears  that  started 
but  did  not  fall.  She  brushed  her  hand  over  her  eyes, 
and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  her  head  turned  from  him. 
There  was  a  slight  movement  of  her  shoulders,  and  the 
sound  of  a  withdrawn  sob. 

The  young  man  looked,  hesitated,  then  went  and  put 
his  arm  round  her.    *  *  I  love  you,  anyhow, ' '  he  said. 

"You  don't,  then!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  always  shall.  Will  you  remember  that, 
whatever  happens?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what's  the  good  of  remembering 
that!  Don't  you  see," — she  spoke  in  rapid  breaths — • 
"yesterday — we  were  here  together — in  my  room — it  was 
what  he  wanted — well,  if —  Don't  you  see?  You'd 
have  driven  him  away;  I  should  have  been  safe;  I 
shouldn't  ever  have  been  afraid  again,  in  that  way,  not 
of  him  or  anybody  else.  I  don 't  want  that  being  afraid ; 
I  want  to  get  rid —  Well,  he's  gone;  it  doesn't  matter 
so  much  now.  If  I'd  had  to  go  back,  like  it  was  before, 
I  should  never  have  forgiven  you ! '  *    She  looked  at  him 


A  CHASTE  MAN  191 

with  bright  wet  eyes ;  her  cheeks  were  faintly,  and  as  if 
artificially,  flushed.  Lawrance  was  utterly  baflfled  by 
her  innocence:  but  though  he  could  not  read  it,  he  ac- 
cepted it  without  dispute.  ''It  was  cruel  of  you,"  she 
went  on,  slowly  now  and  timidly,  ' '  my  asking  you  to  kiss 
me,  and  I  didn't  ask  you  in  fun,  you  know  I  didn't; 
you  knew  I  meant  it !  It  wasn  't  fair !  I  '11  never,  never, 
ask  you  anything  again ! ' ' 

"It's  I  who  want  to  ask  you.  I've  got  to  think.  I 
want  time."  He  spoke  and  felt  quite  calmly,  now  that 
he  knew  she  loved  him.  "It  isn't  simple.  Will  you 
wait  a  little — just  a  little?  You  see,  it  makes  it  all 
different.  I — I  didn't  know  you  cared  for  me,  Olga;  I 
didn't  know!"  He  felt  terribly  disposed  to  cry  him- 
self, in  spite  of  his  calmed  spirit.  Tears,  indeed,  would 
have  been  the  natural  expression  of  his  reaction.  "Will 
you  wait,  darling,  and  will  you  say  that  you  know  I 
love  you?" 

' '  Wait  ? ' '  She  laughed  nervously,  twisting  her  fingers 
in  the  tassels  of  the  counterpane.  ' '  Of  course ;  I  '11  have 
to.  I  never  read  of  any  lover  like  you;  you're  a  funny 
lover!  Lovers  make  love,  don't  they? —  No,  that 
wasn't  asking  anything!     I — " 

She  had  his  kiss  at  last.  He  held  her  close,  turning 
her  to  him.  At  first  he  did  not  know  that  she  kissed 
him, — loved  him  with  the  kiss, — but  suddenly  he  be- 
came aware  of  her,  keen-limbed  and  with  more  than 
answering  lips:  he  felt  that  she  was  tremendously  his, 
in  a  way  utterly  new  to  him,  a  way  that  he  thought  must 
be  new  forever.  His  gain  seemed  vast,  it  swallowed  up 
the  trouble  of  his  desire  for  her.  It  brought  an  equality 
that  pacified  and  assuaged.  Her  response  to  him  held 
him  back,  made  him  safe,  counselled  waiting. 


192  A  CHASTE  MAN 

She  left  his  embrace,  and  sat  back  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  drawing  her  narrow  blue  skirt  down  over  her  knees, 
which  she  clasped.  Her  long  look  for  him  was  protec- 
tive and  tender,  her  eyes  were  glad  and  grave.  Then 
she  smiled,  giving  her  emotions,  it  seemed,  a  long  dis- 
missal, returning,  it  might  be,  to  a  world  that  was  whim- 
sical, whatever  else.  Wisely  and  Orientally,  with  her 
eyes  now  narrowed,  she  seemed  to  accept  and  submit. 

"Well — what  now?"  she  said.  "I  thought  you 
couldn't  trust  yourself?  What  did  that  mean?"  He 
did  not  answer.  "I'm  glad  we  did  have  something, 
anyhow. ' ' 

"Something!     It  was  everything!" 

' '  No,  it  wasn  't ! "     She  laughed  lightly. 

Again  he  longed  to  spell  out  her  innocence.  Certainly 
she  was  not  innocent  as  are  many  modern  girls,  whose 
sensuality  is  elbowed  out  of  reach  by  a  host  of  trivial 
things, — love  of  admiration,  love  of  having  a  good  time 
or  their  own  way,  self-importance.  .  .  .  Lawrance  felt 
ignorant  and  blind,  but  he  felt  now  that  his  ignorance 
and  blindness  could  be  waived :  the  importance  of  know- 
ing and  seeing  was  palpably  diminished.  He  sat  silent, 
searching  her  face,  from  the  low  broad  forehead  to  the 
chin,  soft  and  firm  and  the  whiter  for  the  flush  of  her 
cheeks:  all  her  vibrant  young  curves,  of  face  and  neck 
and  figure,  were  in  communion  with  him:  he  was  con- 
tent, as  never  before,  to  look  at  her  thus,  and  he  knew 
that  in  looking  he  was  "making  love"  and  breaking  his 
promise  to  Muriel  far  more  surely  than  by  any  blind 
embrace.  He  did  not  regret:  he  was  even  glad  to  have 
bought  these  moments  at  a  price:  but  though  he  could 
dishonour  his  promise,  he  could  not  close  his  account  with 
^t.    Curious,  that  if  he  had  had  that  "everything,"  he 


A  CHASTE  MAN  193 

would  not  so  much  have  broken  faith  with  Muriel:  so 
he  felt,  though  he  told  himself  the  feeling  was  absurd, 
wrong —  Had  he  kept  faith  with  Olga's  mother?  He 
thought  he  had. 

' '  Why,  it 's  after  eleven ! "    It  was  Olga,  now,  who  had 
to  speak  of  their  going. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LAWRANCE  'S  mind  returned,  with  an  ugly  jerk, 
to  Tof ton's  cut  throat,  as  they  walked  up  the 
Glasden  Road. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,"  he  said  abruptly, 
* '  about  that  man.  None  of  you  will  be  troubled  by  him 
again, — ever. ' ' 

Olga,  looking  at  the  house,  now  in  view,  saw  that  the 
blinds  were  drawn.  "What!"  she  exclaimed  softly;  **is 
he  dead?" 

"He  must  have  killed  himself.  They  found  him  this 
morning. ' ' 

Olga  said  nothing,  but  she  quickened  her  pace,  and 
Lawrance,  carrying  the  heavy  bag,  grew  breathless. 

When  they  were  at  the  door,  the  girl  hurriedly  whis- 
pered :  * '  They  've  been  waiting ! —  I  'm  glad  you  didn  't 
tell  me  before,  all  the  same." 

They  went  in.  In  the  dining-room,  which  had  no 
fire,  the  bank-clerk  Ewing  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Flynn. 
They  sat  on  high-backed  chairs,  close  to  the  big  table 
with  its  dirty  old  green  cloth.  Olga,  with  that  special 
unseen  swiftness  of  movement  which  she  could  have, 
was  by  her  mother,  kissing  her  cheek  and  her  forehead. 
Mrs.  Flynn 's  eyes  were  red,  and  beneath  the  left  one 
Lawrance  noticed  a  swelling:  he  wondered  if  it  could 
have  come  by  crying.     She  looked  very  ill  and  old. 

"Uncle  Lance!  It  was  kind  of  you  to  stay!  Miss- 
ing your  work — " 

"Aow  no."    Ewing  spoke  with  a  variable  flavour  of 

194 


A  CHASTE  MAN  195 

cockney  impossible  to  reproduce.  "They  can  get  on 
without  me  at  the  Bank  once  in  a  great  while.  There 
was  a  lot  to  be  done,  you  see,  a  lot  to  be  done.  The 
p'lice  an'  all  that." 

**What,  are  the  police  here?"  Lawrance  asked, 
alarmed. 

"Aow,  yes.  They  had  to  come,  you  know,  with  any- 
thing sudden  like  that.  They're  upstairs.  The  doctor 
had  to  make  a  report,  you  see. ' '  He  spoke  confidentially, 
shrewdly,  almost  cunningly.  "They're  up  in  Mr.  Tof- 
ton's  room  now."  The  egregiousness  of  this  "Mr.  Tof- 
ton's  room"  took  Lawrance 's  breath.  "They  'ad  to, 
you  know."  Ewing  dropped  his  aitches  irregularly. 
"Pore  feller!"  He  spoke  out  loud,  as  though  he  meant 
his  voice  to  carry.  "They're  looking  through  his 
clothes  and  his  papers  an'  all  that.  Evidence  of  un- 
sound mind,  you  see  my  point,  doncha?  Mr.  Flynn  is 
talking  to  the  Inspector." 

Lawrance 's  heart  sank.  What  had  the  Mariner  said, 
he  wondered,  about  Olga's  absence?  "What  reason  had 
he  given?  He  saw  at  once  how  black  it  would  look 
against  them,  if  it  were  known  that  Olga  had  been  taken 
from  the  house  for  fear  of  Tofton.  Of  course  there  was 
only  one  explanation  that  was  safe  to  give:  that  he, 
Lawrance,  had  taken  Olga  out,  to  the  theatre,  ostensibly, 
and  then  prevailed  on  her  to  go  with  him  to  an  hotel. 
There  must  be  no  admission  of  the  parents'  complicity. 
Even  apart  from  motive,  that  would  blacken  them  with 
the  jury.  The  Coroner  and  the  jury  would  think  them 
capable  of  anything.  He  must  tell  this  story  now,  if  he 
were  questioned,  and  at  the  inquest.  The  inquest!  It 
would  be  in  the  papers.  It  would  be  abduction.  He 
had  not  thought  before — 


196  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"What  are  we  to  say?"  he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Flynn. 
Then  he  remembered  that  Ewing  was  there.  He  broke 
off,  turned  pale. 

Ewing,  with  a  quickness  of  perception  that  Lawrance 
would  never  have  credited  to  him,  rose  from  his  chair, 
"I'll  take  a— er — turn  in  the  air,  if  you'll  excuse  me," 
he  said,  with  a  little  jerk  of  his  meagre  body. 

"Mr.  Ewing 's  a  friend."  Mrs.  Flynn  spoke  for  the 
first  time.  "You  don't  need  to  go,"  she  addressed  him; 
but  he  was  already  half-way  to  the  door. 

"It's  better,"  he  murmured. 

Mrs.  Flynn  watched  the  door  close,  then,  rapidly,  she 
said :     * '  Michael 's  told  them  we  knew  about  Olga. ' ' 

' '  Why  on  earth  did  he  do  that  ? ' '  Lawrance  was  hor- 
rified by  the  disgrace. 

"It's  done  now.  We  talked  it  over.  We  thought  a 
great  deal  about  it." 

"How  could  he  explain — ?" 

"There  wasn't  any  need  to  explain,  Lorrie." 

"  What !     They  take  it  for  granted— ! ' ' 

"Don't  talk  so  loud." 

"What  must  they  think  of  her — and  of  you,  too?" 

"You  know  what  they  think." 

"You  could  easily  have  said  something  else.  Why,  a 
hundred  things — " 

"Nothing  else  would  have  done.  We  couldn't  have 
given  the  real  reason." 

"You  could  have  said  I'd  run  off  with  her,  and  you 
knew  nothing  about  it!" 

"Then  you'd  have  been  arrested." 

"You  might  have  risked  that.  Anything  would  have 
been  better.  You  could  have  said  she  was  eighteen,  any- 
how." 

"Michael  did  say  that.    They  may  find  out  she  isn't, 


A  CHASTE  MAN  197 

but  it  won't  matter  much.  They'll  only  think  we  were 
shielding  you  and  ourselves,  and  that's  natural  enough, 
if  we  knew.  If  we  weren  't  supposed  to  know,  it  wouldn  't 
be.  I  don't  think  they'll  go  outside  the  ease, — his  case — 
Olga,  you've  heard  everything,  haven't  you ?  Don't  for- 
get. And  you'd  better  keep  your  hair  up. —  Michael 
oughtn't  to  have  telephoned;  he  didn't  think.  They 
hadn't  come  then."  She  spoke  in  a  low,  calm,  even 
tone. 

Olga's  expression,  as  she  stood  close  by  them,  was  in- 
tent and  remote.  She  looked  as  though  she  were  read- 
ing. 

"  It 's  all  horrible ! ' '    Lawrance  spoke  in  pain. 

"I  know  it  is." 

''Couldn't  you  have  said  she'd,  gone  to  friends?" 

"It  would  have  looked  as  though  we'd  sent  her  away 
on  purpose. ' '    Mrs.  Flynn  had  not  once  raised  her  eyes. 

"Doesn't  the  other  look  like  that?" 

"Oh,  no.  They'll  think  that  might  happen  any  time, 
— often.  Besides,  they'd  never  think  we'd,  make  that 
up.     It  puts  them  on  to  another  track." 

"  I  'd  rather  have  run  any  risk ! ' ' 

' '  Then,  if  we  'd  said  friends,  they  might  have  inquired, 
— they  would  have  found  out.  Michael  said:  'Any  lie 
will  make  their  scent  keener, '  We  thought  a  great  deal. 
There's  one  thing  we  mustn't  say."  She  was  almost 
inaudible.  "Do  remember  that,  Lorrie,  remember  that, 
Olga, — and  that's  why  you  took  her.  That  they  can't 
find  out." 

* '  Well,  it 's  done.—    I  'd  better  stay  ? ' ' 

"  No ;  why  should  you  ? ' ' 

"I  will.  I  can't  leave  j^ou  all,  Where's  Poris  ancl 
Marjorie?" 


198  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Marjorie's  at  school.  Doris  is  somewhere  in  the 
house.  I  'd  rather  you  went —  There 's  Michael  coming 
downstairs  with  one  of  those  men.  AVait  a  minute." 
She  looked  up  at  him  at  last  with  wavering  frightened 
eyes.     **I  didn't  do  it,  Lorrie!"  she  whispered. 

He  started.  The  question  of  the  authorship  of  Tof- 
ton's  death  had  not  presented  itself  to  him  as  important 
in  itself.  He  had  been  absorbed  by  the  danger  in  which 
his  friends  were  from  attachable  suspicion.  He  was 
shocked  back  from  actual  unreasoned  experience  to  the 
conscious  normal  moral  standpoint.  "What  if  she 
had?"  he  thought.  The  outflow  of  this  reflection  was 
checked  by  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Flynn  with  a  tall  sandy 
spectacled  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Police  Inspector. 

The  man  looked  surprised  at  seeing  Lawrance  and 
Olga.  "Watkins!"  He  turned  and  called.  "Haven't 
you  been  in  the  hall?" 

"He's  talking  to  Mr.  Ewing,  sir!"  A  husky  voice 
came  from  upstairs. 

"Tell  him  he  talks  too  much.  Tell  him  to  go  to  the 
hall,  and  stay  there.  Is  this  your  other  daughter,  Mr. 
Flynn?"  The  old  man  nodded.  "And  this  gentle- 
man?" 

"He  brought  her  back  this  morning." 

"Oh.  I  see.  Did  Mr.  Tofton  make  any  use  of  this 
room?" 

"He  had  meals  here.  He  used  that  desk,"  Mr.  Flynn 
answered. 

"The  desk  hasn't  been  touched  this  morning,  I  sup- 
pose? No?  Well,  we  shall  have  to  look  through  it. 
Miles!  Just  come  down  here,  will  you? —  I  should 
like  your  name  and  address,  sir. ' '  The  Inspector  turned 
to  Lawrance,  who  informed  him. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  109 

Lawrance  wondered  why  "out"  cricket-matches  of  his 
private  school  days — the  matches  played  on  the  other 
schools'  fields — were  so  forcibly  recalled:  then  he  real- 
ized that  the  Inspector  had  exactly  the  manner  of  school- 
masters towards  pupils  of  a  school  in  which  they  did  not 
teach, — a  manner  bland,  distant,  superior,  precisely  cog- 
nizant of  the  ' '  locus  standi. ' ' 

Miles  appeared,  and  the  Inspector  drew  his  attention 
to  the  desk.  "Do  you  mind  coming  with  me  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  Mr.  Lawrance  ? "  he  went  on.  * '  I  should  like 
to  ask  you  a  few  questions. ' ' 

He  led  the  way  to  the  room  opposite.  It  was  stuffy 
and  cold  there:  the  room  was  hardly  ever  used,  and 
barely  furnished.  It  should  have  been  a  drawing-room, 
for  the  house  was  meant  for  people  who  were  better  off 
than  the  Flynns. 

The  conversation  seemed  scarcely  worth  the  pains  of 
the  Inspector's  notebook.  He  himself  behaved  as  though 
this  were  so.  Lawrance  wondered  if  his  perfunctoriness 
was  a  sign  of  his  being  a  clever  man. 

The  first  questions  concerned  Tof ton's  conduct  of  the 
evening  before.  Remembering  what  Mrs.  Flynn  had 
said,  the  young  man  avoided  the  mistake  of  seeming  to 
try  to  divert  suspicion.  He  was  frank  about  the  scene 
at  the  tea-table,  but  he  added,  truthfully,  that  he  had 
never  noticed  any  signs  of  bad  blood  before. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  his  relations  with  the  two 
girls?" 

Lawrance  replied,  rather  uneasily,  that  Tofton  was 
"familiar." 

"Yes."  The  Inspector  half  smiled.  He  did  not  re- 
cord the  answer  in  his  little  book.  "The  question  may 
or  may  not  be  necessary,  sir,  but  your  own  relations  with 


200  A  CHASTE  MAN 

this  girl — "  He  jerked  his  thumb  towards  the  door. 
' '  Had  the  affair  been  going  on  for  long  ? ' ' 

**For  some  time.     In  one  way  and  another." 

**I  understand."  The  Inspector  hesitated,  seemed  as 
though  he  were  about  to  question  further,  then  shut  his 
book  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "I  may  tell  you  that  I 
don't  think  we  shall  have  to  trouble  about  that.  We 
know  beforehand,  you  see,  pretty  well  what  questions 
will  have  to  be  asked  at  the  Inquest.  There  won't  be 
anything  of  an  irrelevant  nature,  you  need  not  feel — I 
needn't  detain  you,  Mr. — er — Lawrance,  except  that  I 
should  like  to  know  if  this  Mr.  Tofton  ever  struck  you 
as  a  man  at  all  likely  to — er — do  away  with  himself  ? ' ' 

"I  never  thought  of  it.  But  surely  one  never  does, 
does  one — with  anybody  one  meets  ? ' ' 

Lawrance  was  conscious  of  pulling  himself  up  rather 
abruptly.  That  was  a  false  step,  he  thought,  though  a 
slight  one.  He  shouldn't  have  appeared  even  casually 
interested  in  arguing  that  Tofton  had  taken  his  own  life. 
The  Inspector  was  narrowly  regarding  Lawrance 's  boots. 

"There's  nothing  that  would  point  to  suicide!"  He 
looked  up  suddenly  at  the  young  man  as  he  spoke. 
*  *  Nothing  whatever ! ' ' 

**Is  there  anything  that  would  point  against  it?" 

The  other  did  not  answer.  He  opened  the  door  and 
waited  for  Lawrance  to  pass  first.  Lawrance,  reflecting 
that  it  was  curious  that  a  Police  Inspector  should  have 
eyes  so  exactly  the  colour  of  a  cornflower,  opened  the 
dining-room  door  and  walked  in  with  quickened  pace. 
He  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Flynn. 

"You'll  telephone  me  at  any  time,  won't  you?" 

'  *  God  bless  you, ' '  the  old  man  replied. 

He  did  not  seem  downcast  or  alarmed.    His  air  was 


A  CHASTE  MAN  201 

almost  jaunty;  you  might  have  said  he  was  in  high 
feather.  He  stood,  as  usual,  by  the  fireplace,  he  leaned 
his  head  back,  he  seemed  a  little  theatrically  conscious 
that  he  was  showing  spirit.  Doris,  on  the  other  hand, — 
she  and  Ewing  had  joined  the  others,  and  Mrs.  Flynn 
had  left  them, — looked  more  miserable  than  Lawrance 
would  have  believed  it  possible  that  she  could  look.  She 
seemed  swollen  with  misery,  she  was  a  puffy  blanched 
wretchedness.  The  purpose  of  her  blue  eyes  and  fluffy 
hair  and  little  turned-up  nose  seemed  to  have  been  ma- 
lignantly suspended.  Her  blondeness,  something  in  the 
same  way  as  with  Muriel,  served  to  exhibit  cruelly  her 
unhappy  emotions,  to  forbid  her  any  kind  disguise,  any 
garment  of  mercy.  Despair  was  a  discord  for  her  phys- 
ical aspect, — and  it  was  despair  that  Lawrance  saw  in 
her  dulled  gaze,  and  the  bitter  pulled  corners  of  her  un- 
made mouth.  Muriel  had  felt  less  than  this,  had  not 
lost  so  much :  she  had  hoped  to  retrieve. 

Olga  was  still  remote.  Lawrance  wondered  if  the  In- 
spector were  now  going  to  talk  to  her,  alone.  He  could 
not  understand  how  anybody  could  look  at  Olga  and  not 
know  that  she  was  virgin.  But  Police  Inspectors  might 
not  have  this  kind  of  observation,  or  if  they  had,  they 
would  not  be  allowed  to  use  it  officially.  What  a  pellucid 
look  she  had,  as  though  she  waited  and  knew !  She  was 
different, — she  had  been  different  since  yesterday.  He 
couldn  't  tell  how,  but  she  seemed  less  eager,  less  curious, 
more  inclined  to  accept  than  to  ask.  She  was  right ;  she 
had  given  up  wondering.  She  had  come  to  the  time; 
she  knew  that  "wondering"  was  banished  for  the  event. 
She  stood  in  the  arms  of  that ;  she  was  not  now  a  ques- 
tioning spectator,  Lawrance  suffered  rapid  strokes  of 
comprehension;  no  phrases  were  in  his  mind.    He  for- 


202  A  CHASTE  MAN 

got  Tof ton ;  forgot  the  uniformed  man  who  was  turning 
out  papers  from  the  desk  in  the  comer ;  forgot  the  shame 
that  had  been  put  on  Olga;  indeed  that  he  could  hardly 
have  remembered,  seeing  her  in  no  way  touched  by  it. 
He  had  never  seen  her  long  clear  face  so  beautiful:  as 
he  touched  her  hand  he  sighed  deeply.  She  gave  him 
again  that  protective  look,  more  than  maternal. 

**Well,  so  long,  Doris, — why,  what's  up?"  Lawrance 
dropped  his  voice,  puzzled  by  the  girl 's  averted  face  and 
withheld  hand.  ''Aren't  you  speaking  to  me?"  he  half 
laughed. 

* '  Speak  to  you  ?    I  shouldn  't  think  I  would ! ' ' 

*  *  I  '11  see  you  to  the  door,  Mr,  Lawrance ! ' '  cried  Ew- 
ing,  with  a  lively  little  assumption  of  cheerfulness  and 
tact. 

His  smile  set  in  motion  the  creases  of  the  sallow  skin 
by  his  eyes  and  mouth.  Lawrance,  shifting  his  be- 
wildered gaze  from  Doris's  stiffened  back,  was  reminded 
of  the  creases  that  come  in  one's  fingers  after  a  hot 
bath.  Ewing  put  his  hand  on  the  young  man 's  arm,  but 
almost  at  once  withdrew  it,  looking  childishly  shy. 

He  went  outside  the  front  door  with  him.  "Well?" 
he  said,  with  a  mock-nonchalance  that  was  extremely  dis- 
quieting. 

"Oh, — the  Inspector?  Nothing  much.  Only  he's  got 
some  idea  that  it  isn  't  suicide. ' ' 

"Eow,  hashe?" 

"Yes;  he  said  there  was  nothing  that  pointed  to  sui- 
cide." 

Ewing  considered  for  a  moment.  Then  his  face 
brightened.  "Yew  wite  till  they  'ave  a  thorough  med- 
ical examination, — all  over,"  he  said,  with  his  mouth  to 
Lawrance 's  ear.    *  *  Then  there  mye  be. '  * 


A  CHASTE  MAN  203 

**What  do  you  mean?" 

**I'll  see  to  that.  I  know.  Mustn't  stay  talking 
here. ' '  His  cockney  accent  returned  to  its  usual  modifi- 
cation.    '  *  Looks  bad,  y '  know ;  looks  bad. ' ' 

He  went  off  with  an  air  of  perky  triumph.  Lawrance 
stared  back  at  him.  He  seemed  significant,  Ewing 
seemed  significant  and  important.  This  was  really  more 
unlooked  for  than  anything  else.  But,  he  quite  seri- 
ously reflected,  the  man's  breath  was  worse  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  seemed  too  late  to  go  back  to  the  Office.  The  day- 
was  a  Saturday,  when  Lawrance  usually  lunched  at 
home,  at  about  half-past  one.  It  was  getting  on 
for  one  o'clock  now.  Muriel  would  be  expecting  him 
just  about  the  time  he  would  arrive. 

But  it  would  be  intolerable  to  go  back  to  Chiswick, 
to  his  house;  to  sit  opposite  Muriel  for  the  whole  of  a 
meal;  to  be  conscious  of  her;  to  wonder  if  she  guessed; 
to  have  to  say  something  now  and  again ;  to  have  to  ask 
her  how  she  felt ;  to  be  made  to  feel  a  brute,  as  his  state 
of  mind  would  certainly  make  him.  Her  presence  was 
a  perpetual  reproach  to  him,  anyhow,  since  he  was  con- 
vinced of  his  moral  obligation  to  be  fonder  of  her  and 
more  interested  in  her  because  she  was  going  to  have 
a  child;  whereas  he  was  palpably  less  fond,  less  inter- 
ested. To-day,  with  the  idea  of  returning  to  her,  he  was 
struck  by  his  antagonism  to  her  as  by  a  blow,  and  he 
knew  why  the  blow  came  fresh.  Her  pregnancy  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it :  he  had  never  had  to  increase  the 
sum  of  his  moral  blame  by  charging  himself  with  ani- 
mosity against  his  wife  because  of  that.  Animosity  on 
any  grounds  he  had  indeed  scarcely  felt  since  that  morn- 
ing when  she  had  extorted  the  promise:  indifference  he 
had  felt, — little  else:  he  did  not  reflect  that  strong  and 
constant  animosity  might  have  been  more  hopeful,  a 
proof  that  the  links  between  them  were  not  broken  alto- 

204 


A  CHASTE  MAN  205 

gether.  "Why  he,  for  the  first  time  really  deeply,  did 
hate  Muriel  now,  was  because  she  had  through  that  en- 
forced promise  blotted  his  honour,  and,  more  impor- 
tantly,— though  this  he  did  not  admit, — ^because  Olga 
wished  now,  he  knew,  to  be  his.  Lawrance  retreated 
from  this  latter  intimation  to  an  emphasis  of  his  aver- 
sion to  the  return  home.  He  could  not  go  then:  why 
should  he  have  to  go — after  all  that  had  happened? 
Surely  he  had  rights,  as  an  individual?  He  had  been 
through  a  great  deal.  Lawrance  came  actually  to  self- 
pity.  He  could  not  go  home.  He  would  go  to  the  Office 
and  make  up  for  his  lost  morning's  work.  The  clerk 
Britton  would  still  be  there.  He  would  telephone  to 
Muriel. 

Over  the  wire  he  gave  the  natural  excuse, — pressure 
of  work.  The  excuse  had  some  ground,  but  Lawrance 
was  humiliatingly  visited  by  recollections  of  jokes  on 
picture-postcards  as  he  gave  it.  "Where  are  you  tele- 
phoning from?"  Muriel  asked  him  casually.  "From 
the  Office,  of  course,"  lie  replied,  annoyed.  There  she 
was,  dragging  him  into  a  lie.  But  what  else  could  he 
have  said?  He  couldn't  have  said:  "From  Camden 
Town,  near  the  Tube  Station."  That  would  have  been 
unnecessary  and  absurd.  She  would  have  questioned 
further,  she  would  have  been  agitated, — ^bad  for  her. 
Again  Lawrance  saw  himself  the  hero  of  a  comic  post- 
card. In  the  Tube  he  wondered  if  for  any  reason  she 
would  call  him  up  at  the  Office  before  he  had  had  time 
to  get  there.  He  would  of  course  be  exposed,  if  she  did. 
Britton  would  be  entertained.  Dishonour  attended  his 
relations  with  Muriel. 

Opening  the  Office  door,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Crocker- 
ton  Deavitt:    "Queer  business,  isn't  it?"    Lord  Bur- 


206  A  CHASTE  MAN 

pham's  cousin  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  table,  with 
an  evening  paper  in  his  hand,  talking  to  Britton  who 
seemed  flattered  by  the  attention. 

"HuUoa,  guv 'nor!"  Deavitt  sprang  alertly  to  his 
feet,  and  came  over  with  the  paper.  ' '  I  was  looking  for 
you.  Seen  this  ? ' '  He  indicated  a  headline :  ' '  Glasden 
Koad  Horror."    ''Nice  mess-up,  isn't  it?" 

Lawrance  read  the  account.  Some  of  the  details  were 
new  to  him:  that  the  lock  of  the  room  had  been  forced 
"after  the  deceased  had  not  put  in  an  appearance  at 
breakfast  and  did  not  answer  when  he  was  repeatedly 
called":  that  the  "several  gashes  in  the  throat  had  been 
made  by  the  deceased's  razor,  which  was  found  lying  on 
the  floor  by  him ' ' :  that  the  lower  sash  of  one  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  room  was  found  thrown  up:  that  "there 
were  no  signs  of  a  struggle."  The  name  of  the  doctor 
who  had  been  called  in  was  mentioned,  and  a  few  lines 
followed  detailing  the  "long-established  connection  of 
the  victim  of  the  tragedy  with  the  well-known  firm  of 
Messrs.  Harper  &  Shaw,  Furnishers  and  Decorators." 
Finally:  "Investigations  by  the  police  are  understood 
to  be  well  under  way  already. ' ' 

"Well?"  Mr.  Deavitt  queried  impatiently.  "Well? 
My  word,  you  do  take  a  time  to  mop  it  up.  Had  lunch 
yet?" 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  Lawrance  noticed  the  shining 
spruceness  of  his  attire, — silk  hat,  morning  coat,  elegant 
light  grey  trousers,  smooth  kid  gloves,  and  patent  leather 
boots.  Mr.  Deavitt 's  grey-blue  excessive  eyes  and  heav- 
ily drooping  yellow  moustache  were  almost  violently  em- 
phasized by  his  attire.  The  effect  went  beyond  incon- 
gruity: it  was  intransigeant  in  a  rather  enticing  way. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  207 

The  man's  head  looked  smaller  than  before,  under  his 
silk  hat :  it  struck  Lawrance  as  queer  that  the  face  could 
contain  so  large  a  moustache  and  such  large  eyes.  It 
seemed  putting  an  undue  strain.  .  .  . 

"If  you  haven't  had  lunch,"  Deavitt  went  on,  "you 
might  as  well  come  and  have  it  with  me.  There's  a  new 
place  off  the  Lane  where  the  grub  isn't  half  bad. — 
Right  you  are. —  My  word,  Pa  and  Ma  won't  half  be  in 
the  limejuice,  otherwise  limelight,  will  they?"  He 
tripped  out  in  front  of  Lawrance  with  the  suggestion  of  a 
lively  bird. 

"  I  'm  coming  back  to  work  later. ' '  Lawrance  turned 
to  the  clerk.     "Been  any  telephone  call  for  me?" 

"No,  sir." 

"If  there  is,  say  I'm  out  to  lunch  and  am  coming 
back." 

"All  right.  Oh,  here's  your  hat.  Found  it  just  after 
you  left." 

Lawrance  took  it,  relieved  that  Mr.  Inge's  was  not  to 
accompany  that  shining  height  of  silk.  "But  what  did 
Mr,  Inge  go  home  in?"  his  conscience  prompted  him  to 
inquire. 

"  'Pon  my  honour,  sir,  I  never  noticed!"  Britton 
laughed.  Lawrance  looked  at  him,  puzzled.  Why  were 
hats  such  a  joke? 

"I  say,  don't  make  a  half -hour  job  of  it,  guv 'nor!" 
Deavitt  called  from  the  stairs  below. 

Lawrance  smiled.  He  thought  of  answering:  **  'Arf 
a  mo',"  but  could  not  do  himself  that  violence.  Not 
that  he  would  have  minded  if  he  could  have  brought 
off  the  exclamation  successfully;  he  would  have  been 
rather  proud,  but  he  simply  couldn't  get  it  out.    He 


208  A  CHASTE  MAN 

could  not  accommodate  himself  so  far,  but  compulsion 
was  agreeably  absent,  so  he  replied:  *'A11  right,  I'm 
coming!"  instead. 

Deavitt  had  relieved  him.  He  was  glad  they  were 
going  to  lunch  together.  He  found  the  manner,  the 
facilities,  the  slang,  the  unencumbered  schoolboy  push, 
the  bright  assured  irreverence,  the  taut  activeness,  the 
light  genial  speedy  surface  sweep,  of  his  new  acquaint- 
ance, diverting  in  the  literal  sense:  they  drew  him  off 
from  himself  and  so  refreshed  him.  All  this  that  would 
have  been  excessively  irritating  to  many  exactly  suited 
Lawrance,  gave  him  ease  and  security,  lulled  his  nerves, 
excused  and  even  justified  his  own  silence  and  slowness. 
It  refreshed  him,  too,  that  Deavitt  was  not  involved  by 
women:  the  young  man  enjoyed  the  presentment  of  a 
vista  in  which  no  women  could,  he  knew,  appear.  This 
was  altogether  new  to  him.  No  doubt  it  was  this  in- 
difference that  piqued  and  even  angered  Doris.  Poor 
Doris !  Why  had  she  been  so  sad  and  fierce  that  morn- 
ing? 

As  he  walked  by  Mr.  Deavitt 's  side,  he  wondered  how 
this  exclusive  lover  of  children  entertained  them.  Did 
he,  like  Lewis  Carroll,  tell  them  stories?  He  couldn't 
imagine  Mr.  Deavitt  doing  anything  that  demanded  such 
repose  or  such  protraction  as  telling  a  story. —  How 
very  much  life  would  be  simplified  if  one  were  interested 
only  in  little  girls!  Lawrance  thought  of  Olga  in  her 
little  girlhood :  how  simple,  how  free  and  unknotted,  his 
relations  had  been  with  her  then !  He  envied  extremely 
those  people  who  could  be  satisfied  with  romantic  at- 
tachments to  children :  they  must  have,  he  thought,  sin- 
gularly delicate  and  perceptive  spirits. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  209 

"That's  the  second  time  I've  asked  you!"  he  heard 
Deavitt  saying. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Don't  do  it  again,  nortiboy. —  How  long  have  you 
been  going  to  the  Glasden  Road  tank  ? ' ' 

Lawranee  replied  that  he'd  known  the  Flynns  since 
his  early  Oxford  days, — for  nine  or  ten  years;  "since 
soon  after  Marjorie  was  born,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  she's  a  jolly  kid,  isn't  she?"  Deavitt 's  remark- 
able eyes  changed  expression:  a  light  and  momentary 
emotional  gleam  passed  over  them.  "Nice  affectionate 
kiddie.  I'm  very  gone  on  her.  You  don't  care  about 
kids,  I  suppose?  The  other  two  more  in  your  line,  eh? 
They're  quite  outside  my  cab-radius,  of  course.  I  only 
like  what  I  can  carry.  Olga  must  have  been  very  nice, 
though,  at  ten  or  eleven.  Wish  I'd  known  her  then. 
Frightful  jar,  how  soon  they  grow  up.  No  old  hags  of 
sixteen  for  me !    This  bus ! ' ' 

He  was  on  it  in  a  twinkling.  Lawranee  darted  after 
him,  and  scrambled  up  the  steps. 

Deavitt  took  out  his  watch.  "One  thirty-seven,"  he 
said.  "I  shall  just  do  it.  Got  to  see  a  man  at  the  Law 
Society's  Hall  at  one  forty-five.  I've  never  been  late 
for  an  appointment  in  my  life." 

How  very  much  annoyed  Mr.  Deavitt  must  be,  Law- 
ranee thought,  when  the  lace  broke  as  he  was  doing  up 
his  boots.  "How  on  earth  do  you  manage  never  to  be 
late?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Simply  habit,  I  suppose.  He 
won't  keep  me  more  than  five  minutes.  Then  we'll  go 
and  have  lunch.  We  must  talk  over  this  Tofton  busi- 
ness a  bit.    Do  you  play  dominoes?" 


210  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I  thought  you  were  going  down  to  Lipscot  by  the 
eleven  something?" 

'  *  So  I  was,  but  not  now.  Oh  dear  no,  not  now.  Bur- 
phie's  very  peevish  with  me.  He  doesn't  love  his  little 
cousin  Archibald  any  mo-er!  All  because  I  rotted  him 
this  morning  about  some  ostrich  he  used  to  keep  when  he 
was  out  in  Africa.  Bit  of  a  bore,  is  Burphie ;  when  he 
got  started  on  that  ostrich  he  couldn't  get  off.  Counted 
all  the  eggs  it  laid  and  measured  'em  and  took  the  num- 
ber of  their  spots.  Fact.  He  might  have  been  married 
to  the  blooming  bird !  I  forget  how  I  got  his  shirt  out. 
Some  wheeze  about  a  step-ladder.  Anyhow,  he  called 
me  a  buffoon.  'You  never  know  where  to  draw  the  line, 
Crockerton.  You're  a  perfect  buffoon.'  Ever  seen 
Burphie  with  his  shirt  out?  We  must  arrange  it  some 
time.  He  said  he  wanted  no  more  to  do  with  me.  Just 
like  that." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  said:  'Sewerly  not,  Algernon:  you  ain't  a-goin' 
to  pass  out  of  my  life,  har  you  ? '  or  words  to  that  effect. 
Told  him  it'd  been  a  lovely  day  to-day.  No  use.  All 
over.  Bien  ne  va  plus,  as  they  say  in  France.  No.  11.35 
for  me  to  Lipscot  to-day.  But  look  here,  why  did  you 
get  out  of  it?  You're  not  doing  anything,  are  you? 
Now  then,  what's  the  excuse?" 

*'0h,  I — "  Lawrance  was  baffled  before  this  inquisi- 
tion. **Well,  he'd  asked  my  sister,  and  she  couldn't 
come." 

"Oh,  yes;  between  ourselves,  Burphie 's  a  bit  struck 
on  your  sister.  Mentioned  her  to  me,  oh,  yes,  he  did. 
'Child  of  exceptional  beauty  and  refinement.'  I  rotted 
him  a  bit.  Hope  you  don't  mind.  Oh,  he  was  peevish. 
Sure  sign.    It  was  that,  really,  that  set  him  off.    He 


A  CHASTE  MAN  211 

said :  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  She 's  a  mere  girl  with  her 
hair  down  her  back,'  so  I  called  him  a  cradle-snatcher, 
and  that  made  him  savage.  He  didn't  half  bark  at  me. 
Poor  old  Burph !  We  did  have  a  lively  time !  Next  cor- 
ner!" 

He  shot  down  the  steps  of  the  bus.  Lawrance  fol- 
lowed, feeling  as  though  he  were  playing  a  game.  He 
wondered  would  Deavitt  find  out  that  this  "sister"  was 
really  Olga  ?  It  seemed  impossible  that  Deavitt  shouldn't 
find  anything  out.  .  .  .  Deavitt  would  make  a  comic  pic- 
ture-postcard business  of  it,  but  Lawrance  did  not  re- 
sent this  suggestion  here.  That  might  be  the  best  way 
of  dealing  with  such  things,  after  all. 

After  handling  the  man  at  the  Law  Society's  Hall 
with  anticipated  despatch,  Deavitt  took  agile  steps  to 
the  tape-machine  by  the  door  and  scrutinized  the  moving 
record. 

"Bonny  Bird,  one,"  he  said  with  satisfaction.  "I 
backed  him  for  a  place  as  well.  That's  quite  all  right. 
I'm  a  member  here,"  he  went  on  as  they  left  the  build- 
ing. "Didn't  know  I  was  a  lawyer,  did  you?  Oh,  yes, 
I'm  a  bit  of  an  architect,  too,  on  the  side.  And  old 
Israfel  is  giving  me  a  tip  or  two  about  casting  horo- 
scopes. Tracing  Royal  Descents  is  my  speciality,  though. 
What  with  that,  and  being  a  Director  of  a  Company  or 
two,  I  manage  to  rub  along  somehow." 

Lawrance  could  well  imagine  his  interlocutor  hopping 
spryly  from  this  bough  to  that  of  the  professions,  perched 
on  each  for  a  passing  interval,  with  his  head  to  one  side. 
He  certainly  should  have  been,  for  a  time  at  least,  a 
detective. 

"What  I'm  out  for  now,  ontrer  nouse,  is  a  job — a  real 
dairy-fed  one — in  the  A.P.D.    I'm  off  after  lunch  to 


212  A  CHASTE  MAN 

see  Colonel  Voltalin  about  it.  Old  Burph  's  brother,  you 
know.  He's  as  good  as  promised  me.  Pull  at  the  War 
Office  and  all  the  usual  extras.  Must  nail  him  now  be- 
fore Burphie  gets  a  look  in.  He  might  queer  my  pitch, 
now  that  he  doesn't  love  me  any  mo-er. —  Proud  and 
happy  to  be  in  His  Majesty's  Service,  sir!  Ahem!" 
He  saluted. 

''Colonel  Voltalin — "  said  Lawrance  vaguely,  with  a 
lagging  mind. 

"Colonel  the  Honourable  Horace  Voltalin,  D.S.O. 
Bom  1873.  That's  the  merchant.  Married  1899,  Eva 
Marion  Leggett,  only  daughter  of  Major  Percival  Leg- 
gett,  of  Stapley  Grange,  South  Mailing,  Kent.  And  has 
issue:  John  Frewin,  bom  1900.  Alastair  Humphrey, 
bom  1903.  Nina,  bom  1905,  and  very  nice  too !  Any- 
thing more  you  want  to  know?" 

"You're  well  up  in  your  relatives." 

"Relatives?  Nothing  of  the  such.  I  can  give  you  the 
date  of  birth  of  any  peer  of  the  realm,  and  the  number 
of  any  hymn  you  know  the  first  line  of.  Church  Hymns 
or  Ancient  &  Modem,  we  keep  'em  both  in  stock,  sir. 
None  of  your  compliments,  Georgie,  it's  a  natural  gift. 
Once  seen,  never  forgotten.  I'm  not  infallible  with  the 
offspring  and  collaterals,  but  could  have  a  pretty  good 
shot  for  the  bull 's  eye  with  most  of  them.  Get  a  Debrett 
some  time,  or  a  Hymn  Book,  and  test  me,  cockie.  Come 
along,  this  is  where  we  get  our  nosebags  on."  He  led 
the  way  into  the  restaurant. 

"I  don't  drink,"  he  went  on  as  they  sat  down. 
"What's  yours,  red  or  white?  Better  choose  yourself." 
He  passed  over  the  wine  list.  "Better  have  the  table 
d'hote,  hadn't  we?    Saves  time.    I'm  not  much  in  the 


'A  CHASTE  MAN  213 

epicure  line  myself.  Usually  kick  off  with  soup.  Dine 
in  the  middle  of  the  day,  tea  in  the  evening." 

''I  wish  Colonel  Voltalin  would  get  me  a  job,"  said 
Lawrance,  looking  down  the  list  of  clarets. 

* '  What,  sick  of  spooking  ?  I  read  that  article  of  yours 
on  Apports ;  quite  hot  stuff.  Oh,  and  we  heard  all  about 
Marjorie  and  her  Elementals.  They  haven't  been  on 
tap  again  lately,  have  they?  This  little  job  ought  to 
start  them  off,  though.  I  suppose  we  shaU  both  have 
to  trot  round  at  the  Inquest,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Police 
Court  proceedings  and  the  balance  of  the  goods,  as  per  in- 
voice. Doesn't  look  as  though  they'd  get  anybody, 
though,  unless  the  chap  who  did  the  trick  has  been  and 
gone  and  muffed  something."  He  stopped  to  drink  his 
soup. 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be  suicide?" 

"Not  in  these  trousers,  madam.  He's  not  the  sort  of 
merchant  who  goes  and  knifes  himself.  Pretty  rank  sort 
of  a  cuss,  between  ourselves, — bit  too  rank,  even  for  a 
bounder.  No,  there  wasn't  much  class  about  Georgie 
Tof ton.    My  word,  wasn  't  he  wild  last  night  ? ' ' 

Lawrance  had  a  sudden  vision  of  "Georgie"  Tof  ton 
lying  stiff  under  a  sheet,  with  his  chin  bound  up  over  his 
gashed  throat,  and  his  little  eyes,  that  would  never  look 
pugnacious  any  more,  closed  forever.  He  was  gone  to 
a  place  where  there  were  no  distinctions  of  gentility. 
And  "My  word,  wasn't  he  wild  last  night?"  Sudden 
death — it  was  amazing.  Lawrance 's  preoccupations 
with  the  living  during  these  last  few  hours  had  been  ex- 
clusive.—  Perhaps  at  that  moment  they  were  making 
that  "thorough  medical  examination"  of  which  Ewing 
had  spoken.    What  had  Ewing  meant  by  that? —    Sui- 


214  A  CHASTE  MAN 

cide  or  murder,  Deavitt  could  invest  it  with  the  motley, 
bring  it  within  the  music-hall  area.  And  why  not? 
thought  Lawrance.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Deavitt 
suited  him  extremely  well.  Recognized  "wits"  had 
never  suited  him  at  all:  he  secretly  detested  "refined 
humour, ' '  donnish  badinage  and  repartee ;  all  that  made 
him  ill  at  ease  or  bored  him.  Not  that  he  gave  any  hi- 
larious response,  outwardly  or  inwardly,  to  his  compan- 
ion 's  echoes  of  the  entertainers  of  the  populace,  but  they 
contented  him  and  kept  him  going.  He  would  like  to 
ask  Deavitt  to  the  house, — to  dinner,  perhaps.  Muriel, 
he  knew,  would  dislike  him,  only  she  would  certainly  be 
glad  to  have  him  if  she  knew  that  he  was  Lord  Burpham  's 
cousin.  If  she  didn't  know,  she  would  think  that  he 
wasn't  "quite  a  gentleman."  Many  middleclass  people 
would  think  that.  Lawrance 's  thoughts  turned  bitter: 
he  might  let  her  meet  Deavitt  first,  let  her  throw  out  her 
little  hints  that  he  wasn't  "quite,"  and  then  tell  her — 
He  caught  himself  up:  he  was  being  detestably  mean, 
—disloyal,  too.  At  the  same  time  there  was  an  instinc- 
tive renewal  of  his  resentment  against  his  wife  for  being 
so  perpetually,  so  inevitably,  the  cause  of  his  lapses. — 
He  felt  a  certain  need  of  Deavitt :  the  man  might  easily 
become  a  harmless  but  indispensable  drug  to  him.  He 
ought  to  have  more  friends.  A  man  should  have  friends, 
— a  married  man,  especially,  perhaps.  He  had  only  the 
Flynns.  .  .  . 

"Wake  up,  Percivawl!  Your  shaving-water's  getting 
cold!"  The  waiter  had  brought  them  the  next  course, 
and  was  standing  expectant  of  the  order  for  wine. 
"What  did  you  say  the  number  of  your  dog-license  was? 
Thirty-seven?  That's  the  feller!—  By  the  bye,"— 
Deavitt  lowered  his  voice  as  the  waiter  went.    "The 


A  CHASTE  MAN  215 

Flynns  had  better  have  counsel  to  watch  the  case  for 
them  at  the  Inquest.  I  don't  mind  paying  my  whack, 
I  feel  a  bit  mixed  up  with  the  show  myself,  with  that 
*rag'  at  tea, — much  better  all  round  to  have  the  cur- 
tain-drop with  the  coroner.    What  do  you  think  ? ' ' 

' '  I  quite  agree  with  you.  1 11  tell  them.  I  would  cer- 
tainly like  to  share  the  expenses. ' '  Lawrance  stopped  to 
contemplate  the  suggestion  that  Deavitt's  baiting  of 
Tofton  had  led  up  to  the  tragedy.  He  looked  at  the  man, 
trying  vainly  to  focus  him  as  an  instrument  of  murder. 

' '  Right  you  are,  then.  They  haven 't  a  telephone  in  the 
house,  have  they  ?  Better  telegraph  after  lunch  or  write 
straight  away  from  the  Office  and  send  it  by  messenger. 
Unless  you  can  go  up  yourself.  But  I  should  be  in- 
clined to  give  them  a  miss  in  baulk  for  to-day;  looks 
better.  I  can  get  the  man  for  you;  the  very  merchant 
we  want.  R.  D.  Walsh;  ever  heard  of  him?  Clever 
young  hound;  known  him  some  time,  and  he  won't  stick 
it  on  too  much  with  the  exes.  Telephone  to  me  as  soon 
as  you  hear  from  Glasden  Road.  Let's  see, — two  fif- 
teen now.  Your  letter  ought  to  reach  'em  before  five 
o'clock.  You'll  still  be  at  the  Office  then,  I  suppose? 
Well,  I'll  be  at  the  Law  Society  by  four-thirty  and  I'll 
stay  there  till  you  call  me  up."  The  arrival  of  the 
waiter  with  Lawrance 's  wine  caused  no  interruption. 
"Here's  my  regular  address."  He  handed  Lawrance  a 
card  with  an  address  in  Hampstead,  and  the  young  man 
responded  by  giving  him  a  card  of  his  own.  "H'm, 
Chiswick;  yes,  I  know  a  man  who  lives  there.  One 
Francis  Herbert,  Sherbet  for  short.  Couple  of  kippers, 
aetat  nine  and  eleven.  Quite  all  right,  too,  every  rod, 
pole  and  perch —  Wonder  if  Walsh '11  be  able  to  work 
out  any  motive  for  suicide,"  he  went  on  as  the  waiter 


216  A  CHASTE  MAN 

left  them.  "That's  the  real  trouble;  that's  the  nasty 
jar.    Coroner  may  be  a  bit  sniffy." 

**0h,  Ewing  said  something  about  a  medical  examina- 
tion. He  seemed  to  think  that  would  show  a  motive  for 
suicide — " 

"What!"  Deavitt's  tone  cut  sharply.  "Well,  that 
is  luck  and  no  mistake !  Just  let  R.  D.  W.  get  his  teeth 
into  that!" 

"Well,  Ewing  may  be  on  a  wrong  tack."  Lawrance 
was  hiding  his  ignorance.  Evidently  Deavitt  had  "tum- 
bled" at  once  to  something  that  he'd  missed.  "He  may 
be  'off'  altogether—" 

"Oh,  no.  Serpentinely  not.  He's  lived  in  the  same 
house,  plenty  of  tuniopporty  for  observing  his  habits. 
Medical  examination — of  course  that  can  only  mean  one 
thing,  in  that  connection."  Deavitt  looked  quickly  up 
at  his  companion,  who  tried  to  appear  as  though  he  dis- 
creetly understood.  * '  Oh,  by  the  way,  that  girl  Doris  is 
in  trouble,  of  course  you  know  that  ? ' ' 

"Trouble?" 

"Usual  kind.  Penny  plain.  No  doubt  whatevuar! 
And  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  Georgie  Tofton — 
You  see—?" 

Lawrance  gulped  his  wine.  He  felt  embarrassed  and 
bewildered.    How  stupid  and  unobservant  he  must  be! 

"Dear,  dear!  Whatever  are  we  coming  to,  Maria?" 
It  never  seemed  necessary  for  Deavitt  to  pause  for  medi- 
tation. "Well,  really,  constable,  I  don't  know  what  to 
say!" 

Lawrance  felt  as  though  he,  certainly,  didn't.  He 
was  completely  in  the  dark,  and  prevented  from  demand- 
ing illumination  by  his  fear  of  looking  an  innocent  fool. 
He  was,  as  a  fact,  innocent, — ^at  least  in  the  sense  that 


A  CHASTE  MAN  217 

he  lacked  man-of-the-world  astuteness  in  a  marked  de- 
gree. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  was  rather  hurried. 

* '  Time  we  were  drawing  stumps  pretty  soon, ' '  Deavitt 
remarked,  and  after  that  he  spoke  little.  Lawrance  no- 
ticed that  he  relished  his  apple-tart,  and  wondered  if  this 
relish  went  with  his  taste  for  children. 

''Your  sister  lives  with  you?" 

The  young  man  blushed  at  the  question  put  casually  to 
him  as  they  went  out.  Deavitt  would  certainly  detect 
him,  he  reflected  again.  *'0h,  no:  I'm  married,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know  you  are.  Can't  keep  anything  like  that 
dark,  can  you,  guv 'nor? —  Well,  good-bye.  I'm  off  to 
rub  noses  with  the  Colonel.  You'll  write  that  letter  as 
soon  as  poss.,  won't  you?  Hear  from  you  later  in  the 
afternoon.    There's  your  bus  to  Fishgate  Street!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

LAWRANCE,  working  slowly  and  badly,  stayed 
on  at  the  Office  until  he  was  able  to  telephone 
Deavitt  the  Flynns'  consent  to  Mr.  R.  D.  Walsh. 
Mr.  Flynn  had  said:  **As  you  Hke,  as  you  like;  very 
good  of  you,"  with  a  shade  of  surprise  and  more  than 
a  shade  of  indifference.  "They've  had  the  medical  ex- 
amination," he  added,  with  an  unfamiliar  cunning  tri- 
umph in  his  deep  old  voice,  "and  he's  rotten  through 
and  through! —  Ewing's  the  best  chap  in  the  world!" 
Lawrance  was  still  puzzled. 

He  returned,  weighted,  to  Chiswick,  after  taking  a 
late  and  dawdling  tea  at  a  little  shop  near  Liverpool 
Street,  for  the  sake  of  further  postponement.  When  he 
reached  home  it  was  nearly  seven  o'clock.  He  stumbled 
at  the  door.  Muriel,  rather  flushed  and  nervous,  came 
quickly  from  the  dining  room  as  he  was  in  the  hall. 
'  *  How  late  you  are  I ' '  she  cried.  ' '  Father 's  here.  He  '11 
be  down  in  a  minute.     I  must  go  and  dress." 

"Anything  the  matter?" 

"Oh, — no — "  She  turned  from  him  and  went  rap- 
idly upstairs. 

Lawrance  did  not  follow  her.  He  washed  his  hands 
in  the  little  lavatory  on  the  ground  floor :  it  seemed  that 
he  kept  clearer  of  them  by  doing  that  and  not  going  up- 
stairs, where  Muriel  would  be  taking  things  off  pegs  in 
her  wardrobe,  and  where  his  father-in-law,  in  the  spare 
room,  was  no  doubt  at  that  moment  putting  on  his  cler- 

218 


A  CHASTE  MAN  219 

ical  evening-coat  or  brushing  his  grey  thin  hair  very 
smoothly  over  his  elderly  scalp.  The  young  man  felt 
indecently  invaded.  His  thoughts  turned  heavily  to  his 
father-in-law.  Why  had  he  come  up  from  Essex  in  this 
unexpected  way?  Perhaps  he  was  giving  a  lecture  or 
preaching  a  sermon  in  London. 

The  Reverend  Henry  Gleasom  Knight  was  an  eloquent 
clergyman,  a  great  worker  with  tongue  and  pen.  He 
was  "broad"  in  his  Church  views,  being  especially  given 
to  discourses  upon  the  theme:  "For  if  a  man  love  not 
his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen,  how  shall  he  love  God 
whom  he  hath  not  seen?"  "Service  and  brotherhood," 
these  were  his  watchwords :  he  was  of  the  Kingsley  school, 
modified  by  more  modern  liberalities  in  dogma:  he  re- 
sulted, on  the  whole,  from  Kingsley,  Jowett,  and  Mat- 
thew Arnold.  Later  Victorian  Socialism  had  affected 
him;  he  talked  a  great  deal  about  "equality  of  oppor- 
tunity," and  often  declared  that  Society  was  a  physical 
organism;  if  the  lower  members  suffered  there  must  be 
suffering  throughout.  But  his  strain  of  Socialism  was 
not  at  all  dangerous,  either  to  him  or  to  any  one  else: 
in  fact,  it  increased  his  popularity  among  the  upper 
and  middle  classes,  while  the  lower  classes,  on  a  very 
sure  instinct,  made  no  account  of  it  at  all.  Mr.  Kiiight 
was  a  capable  organizer,  as  well  as  an  effective  popular 
speaker.  He  was  always  occupied, — ^by  getting  up  new 
schemes  for  the  improved  working  of  "Kingsley  Hall" 
or  the  "William  Morris  Hostel,"  by  travelling  to  and 
from  meetings  and  lectures,  by  making  subscription  lists 
"go,"  by  writing  innumerable  letters.  He  kept  in  con- 
tinuous touch  with  men  of  note,  was  personally  ac- 
quainted with  nearly  all  the  bishops  and  with  many  of 
the  writers  and  politicians  of  the  day.    A  few  years 


220  A  CHASTE  MAN 

back  he  had  published  a  book:  "Some  Tritons:  by  a 
Minnow,"  which  had  had  a  great  success.  It  was  full 
of  humorous  anecdotes  about  notabilities:  "observant," 
"modest,"  and  "witty"  were  the  epithets  chiefly  ap- 
plied to  the  author, — some  critics  even  spoke  of  his  "in- 
imitable dry  humour," — while  praise  was  given  to  the 
"conversational  ease"  of  his  style.  He  had  two  curates 
for  his  parish  in  Essex,  and  they  were  needed.  For 
some  time  he  had  been  a  widower,  and  he  had  only  one 
child  besides  Muriel, — a  boy  rather  her  junior,  who  was 
then  at  the  front. 

Lawrance,  in  the  drawing-room,  awaited  the  object  of 
his  meditations,  awaited  this  successful  and  influential 
cleric,  this  firmly  standing  example  of  a  happily  active 
and  useful  life.  The  young  man's  first  irritation  at 
the  intrusion  was  wearing  off :  at  any  rate  he  would  not, 
he  reflected,  have  to  be  alone  with  Muriel.  After  din- 
ner Mr.  Kjiight  would  produce  his  cigar-case,— one  of 
the  numerous  objects  of  grateful  presentation  in  his 
possession, — and  would  say,  as  he  always  did:  "Have 
a  cigar,  my  boy  ? — ah,  I  forgot  you  don 't  smoke. ' '  Mr. 
Knight  had  a  resonant  full  voice,  but  its  quality  was 
growing  rather  harsh,  rather  untuneable,  from  continual 
and  careless  use.  At  that  moment  Lawrance  heard  it 
from  above:  "Ah, — Oliver  back?  Well,  111  go  down 
then."  He  did  not  speak  with  his  usual  professional 
geniality. 

A  minute  later  he  stood  before  his  son-in-law,  whose 
hand  he  took,  but  without  any  warmth  of  clasp. 

"I've  not  come  on  a  pleasant  errand,  Oliver,"  he  said, 
shutting  the  door.    "Not  at  all  on  a  pleasant  errand." 

He  sat  down,  crossed  his  legs,  and  began  tapping  the 
floor  with  his  foot.    He  looked  as  though  his  importance 


A  CHASTE  MAN  221 

were  aided  and  abetted  by  the  gravity  of  the  occa- 
sion. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Lawrance,  with  a  sense 
of  the  need  of  being  on  the  defensive. 

* '  I  wish  to  make  an  appeal  to  you ! ' '  The  parson  fixed 
him  with  his  chilly  bright  grey  eyes. 

*'An  appeal—?" 

Lawrance,  looking  back  at  him,  was  struck,  why,  he 
could  not  determine,  by  the  man's  vulgarity.  He  had 
not  noticed  before  that  all  fineness  of  tone  seemed  to 
have  been  stamped  out  from  those  broad  adequate  serv- 
iceable features,  which  had  only  the  illusion  of  being 
strong,  which  were  really  pretentious,  and,  in  essence, 
both  coarse  and  cheap.  The  lips,  held  firmly  together, 
could  be  detected  as  gross  and  mean  under  the  thick 
well-kept  moustache.  All  the  expression  seemed  made- 
up.  The  directness  of  the  gaze  was  tutored,  it  did  not 
come  from  any  frankness  of  spirit.  There  was  a  com- 
mon squareness  about  the  jowl.  Lawrance  thought  of 
old  Flynn  in  contrast.     He  hardened  stubbornly. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Knight,  after  the  proper  pause. 
"Muriel  is  very  unhappy." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  to  blame?" 

*  *  I  know  that  you  are  to  blame. —  I  am  not  speaking 
to  you  as  a  clergyman,  Oliver;  I  wish  to  speak  as  man 
to  man, — as  man-of-the-world — for  I  think  I  may  caU 
myself  a  man-of-the-world, — to  man-of-the-world." 
This,  he  thought,  would  flatter  his  son-in-law,  and  open 
the  way  well.     "It  is  a  matter  of  human  relationship." 

"Do  you  think  that  I've  treated  Muriel  inhumanly?" 

"I  didn't  say  that.  I  was  prepared  to  believe — I 
wished  to  believe — that  what  you  had  done  had  been 
without  fuU  intent."    He  sighed. 


222  A  CHASTE  MAN 

' '  What  have  I  done,  Mr.  Knight  ? ' ' 

' '  Oliver :  I  'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  be  prepared  for 
some  very  plain  speaking."    He  thrust  his  chin  out. 

"There's  nothing  I  should  like  better." 

' '  I  must  tell  you,  then,  that  I  have  taken  steps  to  ac- 
quaint myself  in  detail  with  your  movements  during  the 
past  two  weeks." 

"Oh.  You  mean  you  have  employed  detectives? 
Well?" 

"The  past  two  weeks  include,  of  course,  yesterday 
night." 

"How  long  did  your  detectives  stay  up  in  Glasden 
Road?"  Lawrance  could  not  help  playing  into  the 
clergyman's  hands  by  showing  some  agitation.  The  as- 
sociation of  detectives  with  yesterday  night  alarmed  him 
for  the  Flynns. 

' '  Till  you  left— naturally— till  you  left. ' '  Mr.  Knight 
had  a  moment's  triumph,  but  he  was  immediately  puz- 
zled by  his  son-in-law's  relief.  "I  have  full  informa- 
tion as  to  the — er — course  that  you  took  after  leaving 
Glasden  Road.    A  girl  barely  over  the  age  of  consent ! ' ' 

"You  know  nothing  about  it!" 

"Pardon  me.     I  know  everything  about  it." 

Lawrance  looked  at  him,  hesitated,  then  said  angrily : 
"We  won't  discuss  it!"  His  tone  irritated  the  other 
extremely:  it  was  an  unexpected,  an  outrageous  tone, 
for  a  husband  so  utterly  in  the  wrong,  and  so  soundly 
proven  to  be. 

"Indeed  you  are  right.  Discussion  would  serve  no 
useful  purpose  whatever.  I  did  not  come  to  you  to  dis- 
cuss; I  came,  as  I  said,  to  appeal.    I  want — " 

"Judging  from  what  you've  done,  I  should  have 
thought  you  wanted  evidence  for  the  Divorce  Courts." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  223 

Lawrance  had  never  felt  himself  so  cold, — so  set  and 
framed  against  any  capitulation. 

*'You  would  have  been  wrong."  Mr.  Knight  was 
steadying  his  temper.  "My  conscience — and  Muriel's 
conscience — could  never  sanction  divorce.  *  Those  whom 
God  hath  joined.*  Whatever  my  antagonists  may  be 
pleased  to  say,  I  am  no  false  and  compromising  Lati- 
tudinarian. —  Besides,  you  are  a  young  man,  Oliver. 
I'm  not  one  of  those  who  believe  that  a  single  lapse 
blackens  a  life  or  a  character  forever.  I  hope  I  know 
the  world  too  well  for  that.  I  hope  my  views  are  more 
liberal.  They  are  known  as  more  liberal."  Again  he 
threw  his  importance  into  relief.  "No  one  has  ever  yet 
accused  me  of  being  wanting  in  charity.  I  may  say 
that  I  am  not  employing  the — er — Agency  further.  I 
am  convinced  that  this  is  your  first  breach  of  your  mar- 
riage vow,  and  I  feel  very  hopeful — ^more  than  hopeful — 
that  it  will  be  your  last.  Surely  it  will  be,  if  only  you 
can  bring  yourself  to  consider  all  that  is  entailed. ' ' 

He  rose,  feeling  the  need  of  a  posture  that  he  asso- 
ciated more  familiarly  with  speech.  Lawrance  sat  with 
his  chin  between  his  hands,  determined  on  silence. 

"Your  wife's  happiness  is  at  stake,  the  whole  future 
of  her  unborn  child.  At  such  a  period  in  your  lives  as 
this ! —  Oliver,  I  must  bring  it  all  clearly  to  you.  There 
is  no  one  else  to  do  it:  if  ever  a  duty  were  marked 
clearly,  it  is  my  duty  at  the  present  time.  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  feel  strongly,  do  you  wonder  that  I  felt 
myself  bound  to  take  steps  that  would,  I  hoped,  convince 
Muriel  that  she  had  no  grounds  for  her  fears  ?  Do  you 
wonder,  now  that  it  is  conclusively  proved  that  she  had 
grounds,  do  you  wonder  that  I  should,  as  a  father  and 
a  Christian,  most  earnestly  entreat  you  to  turn  and  stand 


224  A  CHASTE  MAN 

before  you  go  further, — before  you  go  too  far?  I  hope 
I  am  no  Pharisee.  We  are  all  human.  No  one  knows 
that  better  than  I.  Yes,  these  unhappy  infatuations  are 
human  enough, — temptations  in  the  way  of  our  nature. 
I  hold  up  no  hands  of  horror.  Far  be  it  from  me,  Oliver, 
to  draw  away  the  hem  of  my  garment, — "  Lawrance 
cast  an  automatic  glance  at  the  well-kept  clerical  eve- 
ning-coat and  the  carefully  cut  black  trousers — "to 
make  broad — er — you  understand.  That  is  not  the  line 
I  would  take  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  grant  that  it  may 
seem  a  sacrifice  to  you, — may  seem,  I  say,  for  I  am  really 
appealing  to  you,  not  to  make  a  sacrifice,  but  to  avoid 
a  disaster, — a  disaster  for  yourself  no  less  than  for 
others.  I  ask  you  to  reflect,  I  ask  you  to  be  wise. 
What  can  come  of  this  miserable  sordid  affair,  in  the 
end?  I  think  you  cannot  have  considered.  Only  un- 
happiness.  Unhappiness  for  yourself,  for  this  girl,  for 
Muriel,  for  your  child.  It  is  no  light  thing  to  shatter 
the  whole  structure  and  fabric  of  a  marriage.  Mind 
you,  I  do  not  say  it  has  come  to  that :  it  has  not, — ^yet : 
it  need  not.  There  is  one  remedy,  only, — one  prophy- 
lactic, as  I  may  say :  it  is  that  remedy  that  I  urge ;  in  all 
candour,  in  all  sincerity,  and  with  all  singleness  of  heart. 
It  is  a  remedy  that  lies  in  your  hands."  He  paused. 
"Self-control."  He  paused  again.  "Let  us  leave 
Christianity  out  of  it."  The  Reverend  Henry  Gleasom 
Knight  made  a  speciality  of  "leaving  Christianity  out 
of  it."  "Remember  the  Greeks.  Remember  the  vir- 
tues that  that  great  ancient  race — pagan  they  were,  but 
glorious, — ^held  so  dear.  Aidos.  Meden  agan.  So- 
phrosune.  Do  those  high  words  mean  nothing  to  us  now  ? 
Surely,  in  this  hour  of  our  national  trial,  when  above 


A  CHASTE  MAN  225 

all  we  are  coming  to  learn  '  Self-knowledge,  self -reverence, 
self-control,'  surely  now  they  have  a  meaning,  and  a 
real  one."  Lawrance  felt  sure  that  he  was  listening  to 
an  extract  from  one  of  his  father-in-law's  latest  public 
discourses.  Another  of  Mr.  Knight's  specialities  was 
"topical  reference."  "Sacrifices  are  being  made  on 
every  side,  and  made  gladly.  You  cannot  take  your 
part  as  other  young  men  are  taking  it;  I  know  that,  I 
know  you  would  if  you  could.  All  are  not  called  upon 
to  give  the  same  measure.  But  this  other  sacrifice,  this 
you  can  make — " 

"Really,  sir,  I  don't  see  how  my  giving  up  01 — how 
this  particular  'sacrifice'  would  help  us  to  win  the  war." 

"I  was  not  speaking  from  the  practical  point  of  view, 
Oliver."  Mr.  Knight  replied  witb  the  competent  as- 
perity that  he  always  showed  when  he  was  heckled.  "I 
was  thinking  of  the  spirit.  There  is  a  certain  sympathy 
of  sacrifice."  He  made  a  gesture  which,  like  all  his  ges- 
tures, was  fitting  and  auxiliatory,  not  rudely  lavish. 
"If  you  would  only,  bravely  and  resolutely,  break  this 
intrigue — " 

"It's  not  an  intrigue !  I  told  you  before  that  you  un- 
derstood nothing  about  it — " 

"Pardon  me."  Mr.  Knight  held  up  his  hand.  He 
was  much  annoyed  that  his  oration  had  not  produced  a 
more  promising  impression.  "I  understand  that  my 
daughter  is  suffering.  I  understand  that  she  has  causfe. 
I  understand  very  positively  that  the  most  unfortunate 
possible  results  have  followed  from  your  intimacy  with 
this  particular  family  in  Glasden  Road — " 

"You  can  understand  further  that  this  intimacy  will 
continue!" 


226  A  CHASTE  MAN 

The  clergyman  looked  at  his  son-in-law.  Inwardly  ex- 
asperated and  indignant,  he  tried  to  appear  saddened 
and  calm. 

"I  cannot  believe,"  he  said,  "that  if  you  knew  the 
true  character  of  these  people — " 

*  *  What  da  you  mean  ? ' '  Lawrance  was  roused  at  once. 
"I  do  know  it!"     He  got  up. 

**0h.  You  know  that  the  old  man  is  a  drunkard  and 
a  thief  ?  That  he  was  dismissed  from  the  Thurston  Line 
for  stealing  money  when  he  was  purser  in  the  Company 's 
service  ?  You  know  that  the  woman  who  lives  with  him 
— lives  with  him  in  sin — " 

"If  you  say  anything  against  her,  I'll  strike  you." 
Lawrance  spoke  without  passion,  but  he  was  noticeably 
pale. 

"You  will — "  Mr.  Knight  started,  but  instantly  re- 
covered himself.  "I  am  exposed  to  you,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  quiet  resignation.     "I  am  an  old  man." 

There  was  a  heavy  fall  of  silence.  Lawrance  turned 
and  moved  towards  the  door.  The  clergyman  was  now 
thoroughly  enraged.  He  had  his  phrase  for  Doris — • 
' '  The  eldest  daughter  is  little  better  than  a  woman  of  the 
town" — on  his  lips:  he  did  not  at  all  want  to  miss  say- 
ing that  and  other  things. 

"It's  past  the  time  for  dinner,"  said  Lawrance  sul- 
lenly.    "It's  a  quarter  to  eight." 

"I  understood  from  Muriel  that  dinner  was  not  to  be 
till  eight  o'clock  to-night." 

"Oh;  so  as  to  give  you  an  opportunity — "  The 
young  man's  laugh  increased  Mr.  Knight's  anger. 

"So  as  to  give  you  an  opportunity,  sir!"  the  clerical 
voice  rasped. 

"I  shall  not  take  advantage  of  it." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  227 

*' You  know,  I  suppose,  what  happened  at  your  friends' 
house  last  night?" 

* '  Certainly  I  know.     I  was  there  this  morning. ' ' 

"Oh."  Mr.  Knight  was  again  disappointed.  He  had 
kept  this  back,  hoping  to  be  able  to  shock  and  surprise. 
"You  are  no  doubt  anxious  to  be  mixed  up  in  that  sor- 
did and  horrible  business?" 

* '  I  am  not  anxious  to  back  out  of  it  if  I  can  be  of  any 
use.  I  shall  probably  be  summoned  to  the  inquest." 
Lawrance's  tone  was  one  of  satisfaction.  He  hoped, 
now,  that  he  would  be  summoned. 

"I  trust  you  will  find  it  a  congenial  occasion." 

"You  think,  I  suppose,  that  I  ought  to  break  with  my 
friends  now  that  they  are  in  trouble?" 

"An  utter  distortion  and  perversion  of  my  position!" 
The  clergyman  spoke  sharply  and  loudly.  "You  know 
perfectly  well  why  I  ask  you  to  break  with  them.  There 
is  no  connection  whatever.  I  have  no  interest  at  all  in 
this  shocking  affair  of  the  boarder.  I  have  not  even 
mentioned  it  till  now.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
point  at  issue —  When  I  came  up  this  afternoon  I  had 
not  even  heard  of  it ! " 

His  indignation  was  cumulative.  And  he  had  been 
so  forbearing,  so  considerate,  so  delicate,  so  full  of  tact ! 
All  wasted.  Seeing  his  son-in-law  move  again  towards 
the  door,  he  continued: 

"I  understand,  then — clearly — ^that  in  spite  of  all  I 
have  said,  you  intend  to  continue  your  illicit  relations 
with  this  girl — daughter  of  a  dishonest  scoundrel  and  an 
adulteress — waiving  what  else  there  may  be — and  sister 
of  a  common  strumpet!  You  can  strike  me  if  you 
wish."  Lawrance  had  advanced  threateningly.  "I  am 
speaking  the  truth.    Men  have  suffered  before  now  for 


228  A  CHASTE  MAN 

that  offence."  Lawrance  turned  contemptuously  away. 
**I  may  tell  you  that  there  is  no  doubt  whatever,"  the 
clergyman  went  gluttonously  on,  "no  doubt  whatever 
that  the  eldest  sister  is  onsant."  His  tone  displayed  the 
peculiar  grossness  of  moral  people.  As  Lawrance  did 
not  break  the  pause,  he  continued:  "You  won't  give 
her  up,  this  girl  who  is  your  mistress!" 

The  man's  face  was  blotched  with  red:  loose  ridges  of 
his  face  and  neck  were  in  unnatural  prominence,  and  his 
large  white  hands  shook  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  con- 
trol them.  He  would  let  himself  be  struck,  he  had  de- 
termined: he  would  let  himself  be  struck.  Then  he 
would  take  Muriel  away. 

But  Lawrance  had  no  inclination  to  strike  now.  It 
had  suddenly  impressed  him  as  important  to  defend 
Olga.  The  word  "mistress"  stung  him  from  this  man 
who  was  the  father  of  his  wife.     It  was  dishonouring. 

"She  isn't  my  mistress!" 

"Ah!    Not  perhaps  in  the  full  sense  of  the — " 

*  *  Not  in  any  sense.     She 's — ' ' 

"You'll  admit  at  least  that  you've  had  every  oppor- 
tunity—  ?"    Mr.  Knight  was  sarcastic. 

"Yes."  Lawrance  paused;  then  in  a  deadened  tone* 
"I  have  had  every  opportunity." 

"That  is  certainly  so." 

"You  can  think  what  you  like!"  The  young  man 
flamed  again.  * '  She 's  as  pure  as  any  girl  in  England ! '  * 
Mr.  Knight  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  Lawrance 
loathed  him.  "And  I  wouldn't  lower  her — not  lower 
her  below  your  daughter,  sir,  you  can  be  sure  of  that — 
if  you  can  understand  it!  Muriel  shan't  have  that  ad- 
vantage!   But  I  won't  give  Olga  up — nor  her  family; 


A  CHASTE  MAN  229 

not  though  you  were  to  talk  at  me  for  weeks  together. 
So  we  may  as  well  stop  this." 

"Indeed,  yes.  Bitterness  and  vindictiveness  can 
serve  no  useful  purpose — " 

"I  wish  I'd  been  unfaithful — ^with  anybody — a  hun- 
dred times,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't  given  you  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  that  I  haven 't  been ! ' ' 

Mr,  Knight  shrugged  his  shoulders  again.  He  was 
careful,  however,  not  to  imply  by  speech  that  Lawrance 
was  a  liar. 

"So  long  as  you  don't  give  her  up,"  he  said,  "my 
daughter's  happiness  is  ruined,  her  life  is  poisoned — 
the  life  of  an  innocent  woman — whatever  your  actual 
relations  may  be.  Facts  are  hard  things.  You  will 
scarcely  deny,  I  suppose" — ^he  could  not  resist  a  sneer- 
ing tone — "that  your — er — attentions  to  this  girl  are 
not  strictly  compatible  with  the  marriage  vow.  'Who- 
soever looketh  on  a  woman' — I  need  not  remind  you." 

' '  I  don 't  want  to  deny  anything. ' '  Lawrance  opened 
the  door. 

Mr.  Knight  remained  by  the  farther  wall,  as  though 
holding  his  ground.  His  flush  had  ebbed:  his  rutted 
cheeks  were  paler  than  usual  as  the  door  shut. 

"I  must  get  out  of  it,"  thought  Lawrance.  "I  must 
get  out  of  it."  He  realized  that  Muriel's  vanity  would 
always  prevent  their  living  apart. 

He  went  into  the  dining  room.  The  girl  Mary  was 
there,  occupied  with  something  or  other  at  the  side- 
board. She  turned  as  he  came  in:  the  background  of 
her  trained  expression  seemed  grave  and  hostile.  Law- 
rance was  surprised:  this  must  be,  he  thought,  mere 
imagination  on  his  part.    Ever  since  that  Marble  Arch 


230  A  CHASTE  MAN 

affair  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  pleasant  physical  S3rm- 
pathy  with  Mary,  a  sympathy  that  did  not  in  the  least 
encroach  upon  his  passion  for  Olga,  that,  rather,  held 
that  passion  fixed  or  threw  it  into  a  light  less  waver- 
ing. Mary  reassured  him.  Yet  he  hardly  thought  of 
her  as  a  person;  he  dre,w  from  the  sex  of  her  a  certain 
ease  and  repose,  a  sense  of  having  the  right  ground  un- 
der his  feet. 

* '  Is  dinner  nearly  ready,  Mary  ? ' ' 

*  *  Yes,  sir.  I  think  in  five  or  ten  minutes. ' '  She  went 
out.  How  nice  her  rosy  cheeks  were,  and  her  chestnut 
hair! 

Lawrance  sighed.  Suppose  he  had  been  married  to  a 
girl  like  Mary?  There  were  plenty  of  girls  of  his  own 
class  like  her,  enough  like  her  in  character  and  in  phys- 
ical traits'.  They  were  the  best  girls,  though  he  couldn  't 
love  any  of  that  type  as  he  so  alarmingly  and  ungovern- 
ably loved  Olga.  Would  girls  like  IVIary  be  jealous  ?  Of 
course  they  would.  No  doubt  Mary  was  hostile  to  him 
now  because  she  had  overheard  some  of  that  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  Knight.  Poor  Mary !  she  couldn 't  under- 
stand. He  thought  of  Muriel,  but  could  feel  no  pity  or 
indulgence  for  her.  Muriel  was  now  irrevocably  alien  to 
him.  She  was  the  "injured  wife,"  he  could  not  forgive 
her  for  that :  he  could  not  soften  to  her. 

He  went  upstairs,  with  no  reason  for  doing  so,  just 
as  he  had  gone  into  the  dining  room.  He  wondered  at 
the  physical  fastidiousness  that  Muriel  had  stirred  in 
him  lately  and  that  had  kept  him  from  her ;  he  had  never 
experienced  it  before:  it  was  strong.  And  her  cold- 
ness of  temperament  made  it  stronger.  A  dash  of  ani- 
malism in  her  would  have  lessened  the  strain  on  him  of 
her  personality,  which  was  like  a  thin  tight  ribbon  al- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  231 

ways  bound  to  his  forehead.  There  was  nothing  in 
Muriel  for  merging,  nothing  for  healing. 

He  had  walked  on  to  the  end  of  the  passage,  and  was 
standing  outside  Mary's  room.  There  were  no  separate 
quarters  in  the  house  for  servants,  no  backstairs.  The 
door  of  the  room  was  not  quite  closed.  He  hesitated, 
then  turned  and  went  to  his  own  room.  "Room,"  he 
thought,  " — ^blood,"  and  wondered  at  the  association,  till 
he  remembered  Tofton.  Tofton,  however,  seemed  very 
unimportant.  Lawrance  was  sure  that  the  man  could 
never  have  had  any  power  against  Olga.  Still,  he  was 
glad  that  he  was  dead,  if  only  his  death  made  no  trouble. 
He  sat  on  his  bed  and  closed  his  eyes.     He  felt  tired. 

He  wanted  some  one — some  woman — ^to  support  him  in 
his  relation  with  Olga.  He  felt  this  need  of  support 
keenly.  He  was  neither  strong  enough  nor  insensitive 
enough  to  deal  with  Olga  by  himself.  What  he  de- 
manded was  the  co-operation  of  a  physical  and  mental 
rapport  with  a  girl  of  type  sufficiently  opposed  to  Olga 
to  bring  balance — equipoise.  Suppose  that  he  could 
have  two  wives — Olga  and  Mary?  Was  that  fantastic? 
Lawrance  knew  that  he  was  the  very  reverse  of  fan- 
tastic, he  had  always  thought  himself  particularly  ra- 
tional. With  Mary,  or  with  a  woman  of  her  mould,  he 
could  keep  his  love  for  Olga  unspoilt,  he  could  deal  more 
delicately  and  more  truly  with  it,  he  could  avoid  mis- 
takes, he  could  be  steadier  with  her.  And  he  would  be 
tenderer  to  the  complementary  Mary  girl  because  of  his 
passion  for  Olga — tenderer,  more  tolerant,  less  ready  to 
tire.  Would  women  ever  realize  that  it  could  be  like 
this — reasonably  like  this — or  would  they  go  on  want- 
ing it  all,  under  the  spur  of  some  primitive  subconscious 
fear?    Would  they  go  on  wanting  it  all,  and  so  spoiling 


232  A  CHASTE  MAN 

it  all  ?  Lawrance  did  not  feel  immoral ;  he  was  too  much 
preoccupied:  besides,  he  was  not  contemplating  action. 
He  did  not  for  a  moment  see  himself,  in  accomplished 
fact,  with  Olga  on  his  right  hand  and  Mary  on  his  left. 

He  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  again  walked  up  to 
Mary's  door.  He  did  not  hesitate  now.  He  pushed  it 
open  and  looked  in.  Everything  was  strange:  a  room 
in  his  own  house,  but  quite  new  to  him,  not  at  all  like 
any  of  the  other  rooms.  By  the  door  was  a  chest  of 
drawers  that  he  had  never  seen,  a  chest  of  the  colour 
of  pale  linoleum,  made  perhaps  of  some  kind  of  imita- 
tion maple.  Ugly,  certainly.  On  it  was  a  number  of 
framed  photographs — frames  standing  on  teased  and 
twisted  spindles  of  whitish  metal,  frames  decorated  by 
metal  lovers '-knots  and  metal  roses.  There  was  a  family 
group,  a  young  man  in  khaki,  with  a  blown-out  face,  a 
plain-faced  girl  in  nurse's  uniform. — Lawrance 's  glance 
was  cursory,  withdrawn  at  once,  he  felt  ashamed  of  it. 
He  felt  all  that  rebuke  of  inanimate  things  that  are 
deeply  the  personal  property  of  another,  things  spied 
upon,  sa  silently  affronted.  His  shame  quickened.  His 
intrusion  upon  those  photographs  seemed  abominable: 
never  before  had  he  been  shocked  by  himself  in  that 
way.  The  invasion  of  almost  any  privacy  would  have 
been  less  outrageous.  He  stared  at  the  carpet.  The 
carpet  was  familiar.  Yes,  it  used  to  be  in  the  dining- 
room,  it  had  been  cut  off  from  the  old  dining-room  car- 
pet—  Muriel,  of  course,  knew  all  these  details :  how  dif- 
ferent a  woman's  life  was  from  a  man's ! —  Mary's  bare 
feet  on  that  carpet — night  and  morning !  How  curious ! 
how  very  incongruous !  That  picture,  too, — of  a  doctor 
bending  over  a  sick  child 's  bed, — he  recognized  that :  he 
had  disliked  it,  he  had  told  Muriel,  and  then  it  had  dis- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  233 

appeared.  Muriel  had  often  tried  to  please  him,  but 
how  little  difference  that  made. —  His  eyes  wandered 
along  the  wall  to  a  framed  text  and  a  Christmas  Number 
reproduction  of  a  picture  of  a  little  girl  with  a  dog. 
Pinned  on  the  walls  were  portraits,  evidently  cut  out 
of  newspapers,  of  British  and  Allied  Generals,  arranged 
so  as  to  make  a  sort  of  pattern —  No,  he  had  no  right 
to  know  that  she  did  that.  That  was  more  unpardonable 
than  looking  at  her  photographs.  He  drew  back,  startled 
simultaneously  by  his  own  caddishness  and  by  the  sound 
of  the  gong. 

"Oliver!  What  on  earth  are  you  doing?  Where's 
Mary?"  Muriel  addressed  him  from  the  other  end  of 
the  passage :  but  her  voice  did  not  startle  him  at  all. 

"Oh,  she's  downstairs,  of  course." 

«'Well— " 

She  looked  at  him,  puzzled,  as  he  walked  towards  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  He  stood  by  to  let  her  pass,  and  she 
did  so,  markedly  erect.  Her  gown  was  slightly  decollete, 
showing  the  fair  skin,  smooth  and  faintly  pink,  in  the 
hollow  below  her  neck.  Lawrance,  seeing,  held  back. 
His  flesh  bristled  and  stiffened,  as  for  something  at 
enmity  with  his  blood. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  next  morning — a  Sunday — ^was  bright  and 
mild,  with  promise  for  summer.  Lawrance, 
at  breakfast,  felt  no  more  embarrassment  in 
the  presence  of  his  wife  and  father-in-law  than  he  had 
at  dinner  the  evening  before.  It  seemed  that  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  was  aloof  and  suspended 
in  a  region  shadowed  by  anticipations,  the  form  and  sub- 
stance of  which  were  not  shown,  but  which  bade  him, 
surely,  to  wait.  His  mind  made  a  sound  for  him  like 
the  sound  of  rippling  water,  going  on  and  on.  He  had 
slept  profoundly,  without  dreams.  His  whole  system 
was  lapped  about  in  a  reaction  of  repose. 

After  breakfast  Muriel  brought  him  a  letter.  "I 
don 't  think  you  saw  this  yesterday, ' '  she  said.  * '  It  came 
by  the  last  post.    It's  from  Malstowe." 

He  took  it,  thanking  her,  not  looking  at  her,  wonder- 
ing how  he  had  missed  it.  His  invariable  habit  was  to 
look  for  his  letters  in  the  hall,  at  the  regular  post-times. 

The  handwriting  was  unfamiliar,  but  he  guessed  at 
once  that  the  letter  was  from  the  Malstowe  doctor,  al- 
though the  four  weeks  agreed  upon  were  not  yet  up.  So 
Doctor  Peachey  would  not  have  written  unless  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Letty  had  better  be  taken 
away.  And  of  course  she  had :  of  course  she  must  avoid 
that  season  of  summer  distraction  at  ]\Ialstowe.  Law- 
rance examined  the  envelope,  he  was  unwilling  to  open  it 
at  once.    He  would  take  his  sister  abroad:  it  was  not 

234 


A  CHASTE  MAN  235 

an  occasion  for  half-measures.  Doctor  Peachey  had 
mentioned  St.  Franz  in  Switzerland  as  a  later  possible 
place. —  No  event,  Lawrance  reflected  with  great  satis- 
faction, could  have  been  more  happily  timed.  He  would 
get  clear.  That  was  exactly  what  he  wanted.  In- 
grainedly  English,  he  had  been  secretly  all  the  while  de- 
manding a  moral  pretext  for  desired  action.  Now  he 
had  it :  it  was  his  duty  that  would  liberate  him  from  his 
domestic  life. 

He  welcomed  the  opportunity  of  procrastinating  with 
Olga.  At  a  distance  from  her  he  could,  he  thought, 
still  be  her  lover :  yet  he  could  not  commit  himself  to  the 
relation  that  must  follow  if  they  remained  lovers  here  in 
London:  of  that  relation  he  was,  for  all  his  passion, 
almost  virginally  afraid,  when  he  was  not  with  the  girl. 
Indeed  his  very  passion,  romantically  enhancing  sig- 
nificances, was  mainly  responsible  for  his  fear.  Again, 
he  had  declared  to  Mr.  Knight  that  Olga  would  not  be 
his  mistress  because  as  a  mistress  her  position  would  be 
inferior  to  Muriel's — an  utterly  factitious  reason  brought 
forward  for  the  effect  of  startling  and  exasperating 
Muriel's  father.  For  all  that  he  was  bound  by  this 
declaration,  and  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  his  mo- 
tive in  making  it :  with  the  result  that  his  only  altema-  ■ 
tive  was  to  believe  that  he  had  meant  what  he  said.  This 
belief  had  begun  to  brew  in  him,  by  a  process  to  which 
he  was  not  privy,  and  from  which  he  instinctively  turned 
aside.  More  importantly,  the  girl's  response  to  him  of 
the  morning  before  stayed  him  in  security,  abetting  his 
delay. 

Then,  too,  Olga's  family  was  freshly  under  calamity. 
It  was  not  right,  it  was  indecent,  to  take  such  a  time  as 
this.    She  would  realize  that,  surely:  she  would  under- 


236  A  CHASTE  MAN 

stand.  But  yet  Lawrance,  disquietingly  for  a  moment 
which  he  soon  evaded,  knew  that  she  would  not,  that  she 
was  not  of  his  race,  that  she  had  not  any  instinct  for 
Anglo-Saxon  observances.  The  young  man  did  not  look 
forward,  in  any  kind  of  detail,  to  what  should  happen 
after  he  came  back  from  St.  Franz;  he  had  no  logical 
previsions,  and  was  not  troubled  by  the  lack.  It  was 
enough  that  he  had,  now,  under  these  various  defined  and 
partly  defined  compulsions,  to  take  his  course.  He  was 
as  sure  with  himself  as  he  had  been  with  Mr.  Knight 
that  he  would  not  give  Olga  up :  apart  from  that,  he  had 
no  formed  intent;  certainly  no  intent  either  to  boldly 
break  his  inhibitions  against  taking  her  fully,  or  to  hug 
them  to  him  as  sacred  forever.  He  did  vaguely  con- 
template the  future  as  pregnant  with  circumstances  of 
change:  and  he  had  the  palpable  reflection  that  Olga 
would  be  older.  Her  being  now  only  sixteen  was,  to  his 
instinct  as  well  as  to  his  morality,  a  further  check:  but 
again,  it  was  a  check  that  operated  much  less  strongly 
when  she  was  with  him.  Then,  he  was  mainly  forced  by 
blind  stubbornness,  blind  honour:  by  his  being  blindly 
chaste. 

The  contents  of  the  Malstowe  letter  were  much  as  he 
had  expected.  He  had  not  looked  for  bad  news  of  Letty, 
and  Doctor  Peachey's  first  words  assured  him  that  her 
physical  symptoms  were  not  as  yet  alarming.  But  the 
doctor  was  increasingly  inclined  to  give  St.  Franz  a 
trial.  He  had  been  weighing  the  case  carefully  and  had 
now  concluded  that  the  general  effect  of  a  complete 
change  would  be  good,  that  it  would  divert  his  patient's 
mind  in  the  right  way  and  gratify  her  restlessness.  He 
could  not  say  that  she  was  getting  any  better  at  Mal- 
stowe.   He  felt  pretty  sure  that  she  would  be  ready  to 


A  CHASTE  MAN  237 

go.  "I  think,*'  he  added  significantly,  "that  it  would 
be  better  for  Miss  Lawrance  to  be  for  awhile  with 
strangers. ' '  This  meant,  Lawrance  reflected,  one  of  two 
things,  either  that  her  mother  was  an  irritation  to  Letty 
in  her  particular  state, — this  was  likely,  there  had  al- 
ways been  a  certain  amount  of  veiled  discord  between 
the  two, — or  that  young  Phillips 's  company  was  disturb- 
ing. Perhaps  both  these  conditions  were  in  the  doctor's 
mind.  He  understood  clearly,  of  course,  that  Letty 
would  be  taken  to  St.  Franz  by  Lawrance  and  not  by 
her  stationary  mother.  The  conclusion  of  the  letter 
was  occupied  by  reassuring  reflections  upon  the  ability  of 
the  specialists  at  the  Swiss  resort,  the  excellent  ordering 
of  the  sanitarium,  and  the  properties  of  the  air,  espe- 
cially curative  when  the  disease  was  in  an  early  stage. 

Lawrance,  hearing  the  jagged  reverberations  of  his 
father-in-law's  voice  from  the  little  room  they  called 
the  study,  went  there  with  his  letter,  which  he  handed  at 
once  to  Muriel. 

"Doctor  Peachey  thinks  I  ought  to  take  Letty  to  St. 
Franz,"  he  said. 

"Indeed."  Mr.  Knight  started.  "I  trust  she  is  no 
worse. ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  but  she'd  be  better  off  under  specialized 
treatment,  and  in  that  air." 

They  were  silent  while  Muriel  read  the  letter.  She 
looked  questioningly  at  her  husband  as  she  handed  it 
back. 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"Oh — I — I  really  don't  know.  I  suppose  you  must — 
I — "    Her  lip  trembled,  she  looked  vexed  and  unhappy. 

"May  I  read  the  letter?"  Mr.  Knight  impressively 
asked.    Lawrance  gave  it  to  him.    "Ah —    Ah.    Yes." 


23B  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Muriel,  as  her  father  read,  went  over  to  the  window, 
and  sat  down,  looking  away  from  them.  "Your  mother, 
I  suppose,  could  hardly  undertake — ?  No,  I  suppose 
that  would  be  out  of  the  question.  Your  Office  work — 
that  could  be  arranged — ?" 

"Oh,  they  won't  much  like  it.  But  I  can  send  them 
stuff  from  St.  Franz.  They  can't  very  well  dismiss  me, 
you  know,  and  they  wouldn't,  anyhow.  I  couldn't  let 
the  Office  stand  in  the  way. —  My  mother  would  make 
up  any  money  loss  that  we  couldn't  conveniently  bear 
ourselves. ' ' 

"Quite  so.  Quite.  Well,  dear  Muriel,  you  would  of 
course  come  to  me.  Most  certainly.  I  must  say  that  all 
this  seems  to  me — er — in  a  sense — providential."  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and,  after  a  silence,  added:  **Let 
us  hope  that  St.  Franz  will  completely  restore  your 
sister.  I  feel  that  it  will.  I  feel  that  she  will  find  there 
what  she — er — really  needs.  You  would,  I  take  it,  pro- 
pose to  start  soon  ? ' ' 

* '  I  shall  write  to  Letty  and  to  Doctor  Peachey  to-day. 
There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  start  this  week.  I 
thought  of  asking  her  to  come  up  to  London  as  soon  as 
possible — by  the  day  after  to-morrow,  perhaps.  "We 
shall  have  to  get  passports,  of  course."  It  was  before 
the  stringency  of  the  "Green  Forms." 

' '  Your  mother  will  not  oppose  it  ? " 

Lawrance  shook  his  head.  "Shall  I  ask  Letty  to  stay 
with  us?"  He  turned  to  Muriel,  who  was  still  sitting 
by  the  window. 

*  *  Oh,  no ! "  she  said  quickly ;  then :  "I  mean  of  course, 
why,  yes." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  necessary.  She  has  plenty  of  friends  in 
London." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  239 

"It's  only  that  I  didn't  quite  want — just  now — " 
Muriel  broke  off.  Her  husband  was  embarrassingly  sur- 
prised to  notice  that  she  was  nearly  crying. 

Mr.  Knight  made  a  little  gesture. 

**Ah,  yes!"  His  tone  was  conciliatory  and  reason- 
able. "We  can  understand.  I  think  we  can  under- 
stand, Oliver.  Now  why  not  leave  the  whole  affair  in 
my  hands  ?  I  ought  to  get  back  to  Chepston  in  time  for 
the  Children 's  Service  this  afternoon.  Now  don 't  you 
think—?" 

"Yes!  That's  what  I  should  like — I  should  like  to 
come  with  you  to-day!"  Muriel  spoke  with  a  violent 
mingling  of  defiance,  insecurity,  fear,  and  self-pity. 

"Well,  now,  there  we  are!  What  do  you  say, 
Oliver?" 

"Oh,  all  right."  Lawrance  was  piqued,  although  the 
arrangement  suited  him  perfectly.  Further  he  was 
puazled  by  the  expression  that  Muriel  now  wore.  She 
looked  hurt.  He  had  never  seen  her  look  hurt,  in  that 
curious  animal  way. 

"That's  settled,  then!"  The  clergyman  went  briskly 
and  cheerfully  on.  * '  And  I  do  believe  for  the  best :  yes, 
I  think  so,  I  think  so.  You  can  arrange,  Muriel  dear, 
for  an  early  lunch? — and  get  through  your  packing 
while  I'm  at  St.  Saviour's?  The  servants  can  come  down 
later,  after  Oliver  and  Letty  have  left.  A  good  plan :  I 
think  it's  an  excellent  plan.  They  can  bring  down  your 
heavy  luggage.  Quite  enough  accommodation  for  them 
all  at  the  Rectory.  You  know  I  only  have  a  Belgian 
refugee  woman  to  do  a,ll  the  work  of  the  house,  since 
Gerald  went  off  to  Flanders.  War  economy — ^the  simple 
life,  ah  ha!"  He  had  quite  recaptured  his  professional 
geniality.    "But  I  admit  she's  a  good  cook.    Your  peo- 


240  A  CHASTE  MAN 

pie  can  just  take  possession.  Might  release  one  of  them 
for  war-work,  perhaps  ?  I  'm  in  touch  with  a  number  of 
organizations.  That  pretty  parlourmaid  looks  as  if 
she  'd  be  quite  up  to  making  munitions.  Anyhow,  I  '11  be 
pressing  them  all  into  service  for  the  harvest  later  on, 
you'll  see!    Well,  it's  after  half -past  ten." 

He  hurried  off  to  church.  Lawrance,  alone  with 
Muriel,  felt  acutely  uncomfortable. 

"What's  the  matter?"  was  all  he  could  say. 

'  *  Oh,  do  leave  me  alone ! ' '  she  went  to  the  door. 

"It's  all  right,  isn't  it?"  he  asked  feebly.  **I  mean 
it  suits  you,  it's  what  you  want." 

*'I — "  She  looked  at  him  quickly,  then  looked  away. 
"I  despise  you,"  she  said. 

"You — what?"  He  was  astounded.  "Muriel!  What 
did  you  say?" 

*  *  I  despise  you, ' '  she  repeated. 

He  stared  at  her,  shocked.  "I  can't  see — I  can't — 
Why  do  you?" 

"Because  of  everything.  Everything.  And  I  should 
think  that  girl  would  despise  you  too.  She  will. ' '  The 
muscles  about  Muriel's  mouth  were  working  unevenly, 
making  her  face  seem  thinner. 

"What  did  your  father  tell  you?" 

She  left  without  answering  him.  Because  she  was 
going  to  cry,  he  wondered  ?  She  seemed  very  near  tears, 
but  he  was  not  sure.  He  did  not  wonder  if  she  really 
despised  him,  her  tone  had  convinced  him  that  she  did ; 
but  his  thoughts  galled  one  another's  heels  in  disordered 
speculation  on  the  cause  of  her  feeling:  he  protested  to 
himself  all  the  while  that  he  had  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve it,  protested  with  pride  deeply  hurt.  She  might 
hate  him,  be  angry  with  him,  that  would  be  natural. — 


A  CHASTE  MAN  241 

Had  her  father  told  her  that  he  had  declared  that  Olga 
was  not  his  mistress,  and  did  Muriel  believe  it  and  de- 
spise him  in  consequence?  Well  then,  all  the  more  he 
would  hold  back !  But  it  was  incredible :  unless — as  in- 
deed Lawrance  had  of  late  dimly  suspected — women  had 
a  secret  code  of  morality  quite  different  from  the  codes 
of  men.  The  young  man's  present  passing  suspicion 
that  Muriel's  jealousy  and  animosity  were  heightened 
by  her  knowledge  of  his  abstinence  was  the  most  dimly 
fluttering  of  all. —  Perhaps  Mr.  Knight  had  told  her 
that  he  kept  from  Olga  for  fear  of  putting  his  wife  in  a 
position  of  superiority  to  the  girl.  That  would  nat- 
urally have  angered  her,  and  she  might  be  retaliating. 
Lawrance 's  pride  preferred  this  as  an  explanation. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  solitary  husband  embraced  his  solitariness 
fully.  After  Muriel  and  her  father  had  left 
that  afternoon  he  kept  to  the  house,  taking  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  silence,  the  ease,  the  relief.  There 
was  an  agreeable  crepitation  of  emptiness  in  his  ears. 
All  the  afternoon  he  stayed  in,  although  the  weather  re- 
mained tempting  for  out-of-doors.  He  wrote,  carefully, 
to  Letty,  to  Doctor  Peachey,  and  to  his  mother :  then  he 
read  the  Sunday  paper,  and  was  shocked  by  the  gross 
intrusion  upon  him  of  a  reproduction  of  a  photograph  of 
Mrs.  Flynn  familiar  in  the  Glasden  Eoad  dining  room  for 
years  past.  In  reproduction  the  portrait  was  distorted 
to  a  new  grotesqueness.  It  was  her  face  seen  in  a  cruel 
dream — it  was  dead  matter  wickedly  galvanized  to  life- 
in-nightmare.  Above  it  was  the  headline:  "Inexpli- 
cable Tragedy  in  the  Glasden  Road."  There  was  also 
a  photograph,  probably  taken  in  the  'nineties,  of  a  fat 
young  man  in  a  straw  hat,  bow  tie  and  'wing'  collar,  a 
photograph  that  Lawrance  had  never  seen  before  and 
that  he  did  not  recognize  at  first.  But  the  'Mr.  Claude 
Tof ton '  printed  underneath  informed  him.  '  Mr.  Claude 
Tof ton ' !  And  he,  like  the  Emperor  Maximilian  or 
King  Henry  of  Navarre,  was  dead.  Were  they,  then, 
equal  now  ?  Could  death  level  so  far  as  that  ?  It  seemed 
impossible.  That,  at  least,  could  not  be  the  true  phi- 
losophy.   Lawrance,  in  the  face  of  the  culminating  and 

242 


A  CHASTE  MAN  243 

silent  fact  of  death,  was  momentarily  conscious  that  he 
had  no  philosophy  at  all,  that  "philosophy"  was  merely 
a  name  that  he  needed  for  use  in  his  articles  and  re- 
views, that  it  meant  no  more  to  him  than  any  key  of 
his  typewriter.  He  shuffled  uncomfortably  in  his  mind, 
and  set  to  read  the  report  of  the  "Inexplicable  Tragedy." 
It  was  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  evening  paper  of 
the  day  before,  only  more  diffuse:  but  the  last  sentence 
set  him  pondering:  "The  deceased  man  had  been  suf- 
fering from  a  certain  ailment  for  some  little  time  past, 
and  it  is  understood  that  the  medical  evidence  on  this 
point  may  prove  to  be  of  no  inconsiderable  importance. ' ' 

"A  certain  ailment"!  Of  course.  Lawrance  under- 
stood now.  Except  that  he  changed  colour  slightly  and 
held  the  paper  rigidly  before  him,  he  gave  no  outward 
sign,  nor  did  his  thoughts  find  words.  But  he  knew  now 
what  the  will  to  murder  was  like,  he  knew  just  how  it 
paid  no  heed. 

Mary  at  that  moment  came  in  with  a  tray  and  tea- 
things. 

*  *  Would  you  wish  your  tea  here,  sir  ? "  He  was  in  the 
little  "study." 

"What  is  it?"  He  answered  with  an  absent  auto- 
matic smile.     "Oh,  yes,  I'll  have  some  tea." 

"I'll  bring  it  in  a  few  minutes." 

Lawrance 's  eyes  rested  on  the  girl's  face.  Her  ex- 
pression seemed  changed,  she  looked  more  competent  for 
herself,  more  independent,  more  decided.  He  was  con- 
scious of  not  wanting  her  to  go. 

"Oh — Mary,"  he  said  slowly,  "do  you  like  this  ar- 
rangement?    This  going  down  to  Mr.  Knight's?" 

"I'm  not  going,  sir."    She  flushed  a  little. 

"Oh!" 


244  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"No,  sir.  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  like.  I  don't 
feel  as  I  wish  to. —  I  was  wanting  to  ask  you  for  the 
mistress's  address,  sir,  because  I'd  better  write  and  tell 
her." 

''What  will  you  do,  then?" 

"Oh,  111  go  home,  to  Ealing,  I  shall  get  another 
place,  sir." 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  make  the  change,  Mary, — if 
I'm  not  inquisitive?" 

"Only  that  I  don't  feel  as  I  wish  to — "  She  looked 
at  the  floor. 

"All  right:  but  I'm  sorry.  I — I  liked  your  being 
here,  you  know." 

"But  you're  going  away,  sir,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  coming  back — of  course.  Don't  you  think, 
Mary — I  mean,  of  course  you  know  what 's  best  for  your- 
self— ^but  couldn't  you  think  it  over  a  little  more?" 
After  that  newspaper  account  he  was  particularly  re- 
luctant to  lose  her. 

"I  don't  feel  as  I  wish  to  go  to  Mr.  Knight's."  She 
again  repeated  her  phrase. 

"Well,  maybe  you'll  come  back  to  us  later  on — when 
we're  in  this  house  again?" 

"I  don't  hardly  know  about  that,  sir."  She  spoke 
unexpectedly  proudly. 

Lawrance  involuntarily  sighed.  He  felt  vaguely  that 
the  full  weight  of  Muriel  would  be  thrown  on  him  if  this 
girl  were  not  there.  But  after  all,  that  was  in  the 
future. 

"Well,  Mary — of  course^" 

He  stopped,  suddenly  ashamed,  presented  by  the  comic 
postcard  view  of  his  taking  an  opportunity  with  his 
servant  in  his  wife's  absence.    He  remembered  an  actual 


A  CHASTE  MAN  245 

postcard — a  young  man,  with  a  shiny  gallivanting  air, 
embracing  a  girl  in  cap  and  apron,  while  a  fat  cook,  out- 
side the  door,  was  stooping,  her  eye  to  the  keyhole. 

* '  All  right.     I  '11  give  you  the  address. ' ' 

He  compelled  himself  to  a  tone  of  finality,  and  Mary 
left  him.  When  she  returned  with  the  tea  and  but- 
tered toast  he  pretended  to  be  reading  and  they  neither 
of  them  spoke. 

LaT\Tance,  still  under  the  grinning  tyranny  of  popular 
ridicule,  forbade  himself  a  visit  to  the  Flynns  that  eve- 
ning. He  refused,  on  his  dignity,  the  role  of  the  play- 
ing mouse.  For  hours  he  sat,  trying  to  read  a  "psy- 
chic" work  that  he  had  to  review,  his  mind  striking  out 
violently  every  other  minute  to  that  bestial  horror  of 
Tof ton's  "certain  ailment"  and  all  that  it  had  threat- 
ened. If  only  he  had  known  before!  He  would  have 
gone  for  him,  knocked  him  down,  horsewhipped  him, 
kicked  him  out  of  the  house,  the  man  would  not  have 
dared  to  come  back,  he  would  have  taken  good  care.  .  .  . 
Why  hadn  't  they  told  him  everything  ?  And  Doris  .  .  . 
he  thought  of  what  Deavitt  had  hinted  about  Doris,  in 
connection  with  Tofton.  If  that  were  true,  would  it 
come  out,  and  would  it  strengthen  the  argument  for 
suicide  or  for  murder?  Logically  for  murder,  perhaps, 
but  the  jury's  sympathies  would  certainly  be  favour- 
ably touched.  They  would  not  want  to  bring  in  a  ver- 
dict that  might  be  hostile  to  the  relatives  of  the  injured 
girl.  Olga — Olga  would  have  been  safe  anyhow,  he 
knew, — safe  from  that  ultimate  double  abomination.  He 
would  not  think  of  it ;  he  drew  breath. —  Was  there  any 
proof?  No  hint  of  proof  of  murder  had  been  given  in 
either  of  the  newspaper  reports.  There  were  no  signs 
of  a  struggle,  the  bedroom  door  had  been  locked :  but  had 


246  A  CHASTE  MAN 

it  been  locked  from  the  inside,  and  where  had  the  key 
been  found?  Deavitt,  who  was  a  lawyer,  had  said  that 
they  couldn't  bring  it  home  to  anybody. 

For  the  first  time  Lawrance  brought  himself  to  the  at- 
tempt to  imagine  what  might  have  happened.  Tofton 
drunk,  probably, — a  scene  with  Doris — the  intervention 
of  the  old  man  and  Mrs.  Flynn — Tofton  using  physicEil 
force  against  them — retaliation,  self-defence,  then  a  des- 
patch of  the  matter,  in  terror  and  rage,  by  the  one  pos- 
sessed of  the  razor.  Was  that  possible?  Mrs.  Flynn 
had  not  done  it;  he  believed  her  denial.  Doris — impos- 
sible: it  was  the  Mariner,  of  course.  And  Ewing  must 
know  all  about  it:  how  to  figure  Ewing  as  a  secret  re- 
pository of  bloody  knowledge  ?  ' '  Ewing 's  the  best  chap 
in  the  world!"  He  remembered  old  Flynn 's  emphatic 
declaration. 

But,  after  all,  why  shouldn't  Tofton  have  killed  him- 
self? He  was  diseased;  "rotten  through  and  through" 
— what  strain  on  that  point,  though ! —  No,  Tofton  would 
never  have  done  it.  He  wasn't,  as  Deavitt  saw,  that 
sort;  he  couldn't  have  cut  his  own  throat  with  a  razor. 
But  the  jury  wouldn't  know  that. 

All  the  afternoon  and  evening  Lawrance  had  been 
attentive  for  the  ring  of  the  telephone.  If  they  called 
him  up  from  Glasden  Road,  he  would  go.  He  would  be 
''allowed  to"  then;  neither  his  dignity  nor  his  con- 
science would  rebel.  He  wanted  to  go  very  much,  and 
his  desire  to  be  with  Olga  increased  as  the  hours  passed, 
as  the  novelty  of  his  being  in  the  house  without  Muriel 
began  to  wear  off.  He  consoled  himself  by  anticipating 
the  to-morrow,  when  he  would  certainly  be  there,  when 
he  would  see  Olga,  see  his  girl.    It  would  be  only  decent 


A  CHASTE  MAN  247 

to  go  then,  it  would  be  unfriendly  not  to  go. —    Wasn't 
it  unfriendly  not  to  go  now  ? 

The  young  man  rose  and  walked  about  the  room. 
He  stood  by  the  door,  undecided:  he  wished  they  had  a 
telephone  at  Glasden  Road.  Should  he  telephone  to 
Deavitt?  The  inquest  would  no  doubt  be  to-morrow. 
He  would  find  out, — early  the  next  morning,  he  would 
find  out.  He  decided  to  leave  it  till  then,  because  that 
decision  required  an  effort,  and  the  effort  justified  him. 
He  began  to  realize,  in  spite  of  himself,  that  he  felt  afraid 
of  his  next  meeting  with  Olga :  he  felt  a  fascinated  shrink- 
ing. Connectingly  he  thought  of  Muriel's  "I  despise 
you. ' '  Was  that  why  she  despised  him, — again  he  asked 
himself,  and  now  more  definitely, — ^because  he  held  back, 
because  he  had  this  fear  ?  But  surely  she  ought  to  feel 
herself  protected:  could  she  despise  what  was  her  own 
protection?  Ah,  but  was  it?  Lawrance  knew  that  his 
fear  of  Olga  was  a  measure  of  his  love  for  her :  he  did 
not  know  that  women  summon  all  the  materialism  of 
their  sex  to  aid  their  scorn  of  this  kind  of  love  when  it 
is  directed  to  a  rival;  and  that  they  may  secretly  scorn 
it,  and  work,  though  blindly,  against  it,  even  when  they 
are  its  objects  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  LETTER  from  Olga  was  on  the  breakfast-table 
the  next  morning.  Lawrance  took  it,  ex- 
cited by  the  handwriting — the  small  thick  in- 
expert handwriting,  so  much  a  girl's.  Could  any  one 
else  be  so  much  a  girl,  every  way?  She  was  violent  in 
his  blood;  it  was  terrible:  he  had  not  asked  for  this. 
He  looked  aghast  at  the  little  blue  envelope:  then  real- 
ized that  Mary  had  come  in  and  was  watching  him  as  he 
looked.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  hurriedly  and  painfully. 
He  did  not  feel  angry  with  her ;  he  wished  her  well.  If 
only  she,  too,  could  somehow  come  in.  He  knew  that  it 
would  be  eminently  right  for  all  of  them,  if  she  could : 
it  was  one  of  those  eminently  right  things  that  are  out  of 
the  question,  that  in  our  present  world,  with  its  Lord 
Burphams  and  its  Reverend  Henry  Knights,  cannot  pos- 
sibly be. 

Lawrance  remembered  the  headmaster  of  his  Public 
School.  This  Dr.  Ashe  would  gather  the  boys  together 
on  occasions  when  any  particular  breach  of  discipline 
had  been  current,  he  would  speak  tersely  and  resolutely, 
and  always  he  would  wind  up  by  saying:  "Now  this 
is  one  of  those  things  that  must  not  he." 

When  the  parlourmaid  had  gone,  Lawrance  read  the 
letter : 

"I  thought  you  would  have  come  this  evening,  and  I 
don't  see  why  you  didn't  come.  It  is  eleven  o'clock 
now.    The    inquest    is    going    to    be    tomorrow.    Mr. 

248 


A  CHASTE  MAN  249 

"Walsh  has  been  here.  He  thinks  you  won't  have  to 
come  to  the  inquest.  Please  don't  come  unless  you  have 
to.     I'd  rather  you  didn't." 

He  could  not  make  out  if  she  had  signed  herself  ' '  Yours 
Olga "  or  "  Your  Olga. ' '  The  word  ' '  inquest ' '  was  mis- 
spelt. 

Lawrance  took  the  letter  in  his  hand,  crumpled  it 
close  and  held  it.  He  opened  his  waistcoat  and  his  shirt, 
pressed  the  letter  to  his  bare  breast,  kept  it  there.  He 
thought  himself  a  weak  fool,  a  sentimental  ass,  but  the 
letter  stayed.  He  had  no  appetite,  yet  he  did  not  want 
not  to  eat.  Well,  he  was  going  to  Switzerland,  to  St. 
Franz.  He  repeated  to  himself:  "I  am  going  to  St. 
Franz."  He  thought  of  what  had  to  be  done.  He 
would  go  to  the  Foreign  Office,  and  get  two  applica- 
tion forms  for  passports.  They  had  put  up  a  large 
wooden  structure  for  the  business  of  issuing  passports; 
he  remembered  having  seen  it.  Better  to  start  at  once. 
He  finished  his  breakfast  hurriedly. 

When  he  was  outside  the  front  door  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  Passport  place  would  most  likely  not  be  open  so 
early.  He  would  have  to  go  at  midday.  Now  he  would 
be  too  early  at  the  Office.  He  would  take  a  bus  the 
whole  way,  then  he  would  walk  about. 

In  the  Strand  a  red  arrow  pointing  to  a  recruiting 
office  caught  his  eye.  "Perhaps  they'd  take  me,"  he 
thought.  Then  he  could  stay,  he  would  not  go  to 
Switzerland,  he  would  have  to  be  in  England  for  train- 
ing for  some  time,  it  would  be  his  duty  to  be  in  the  same 
country  with  Olga.  He  got  down  from  the  bus.  Peo- 
ple said  the  doctors  weren't  too  particular  nowadays. 
Certainly  he  didn't  feel  that  there  was  anything  the 
matter  with  his  heart.    It  might  have  got  better. 


250  A  CHASTE  MAN 

He  hadn't  long  to  wait.  It  was  one  of  the  seasons 
when  recruiting  was  slack,  a  little  while  before  the  trial 
of  the  Derby  Scheme.  As  Lawrance  stripped,  Olga's 
letter  fell  to  the  floor,  and  one  of  the  doctors,  passing 
through,  smiled.  This  doctor  was  a  solid  agreeable-look- 
ing man  of  middle  age  and  middle  height,  blandly 
brisk.  ..."  Hey  ? "  he  said  suddenly,  after  a  minute  of 
examination.  "Hey?  what's  this?"  He  was  silent, 
listening,  tapping.  Then:  "Won't  do,  I'm  afraid. 
Aortic.  You're  no  good  to  us.  Put  your  clothes  on. 
Sorry." 

"You're  sure?"  asked  Lawrance  vaguely.  It  seemed 
to  have  happened  too  quickly. 

"What's  the  use?  You'd  never  stand  the  life.  You 
wouldn't  stand  the  training."  He  said  something 
rapidly  and  inaudibly  to  the  other  doctor,  who  nodded. 
"Don't  be  alarmed.  You're  all  right,  but  you've  got  to 
take  care  of  yourself.  You  couldn't  do  that  in  France. 
Out  of  the  question.  You've  a  doctor  of  your  own, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes — but  I  thought —  You  really  don't  think  any 
one  would — ?" 

"Not  while  he  retained  his  senses. —  Well,  you've 
done  the  right  thing.  But  if  we  passed  you  you'd  only 
be  filling  a  bed  that's  meant  for  a  better  man.  Better 
man  physically,  I  mean.  Wouldn't  do  at  all.  Well, 
good-bye.  Tell  her  you're  no  good  to  us."  He  smiled 
again.  "Tell  her  you've  tried.  Don't  go  running  up- 
stairs too  hard."    He  sat  down  and  began  to  write. 

"Go  and  put  your  clothes  on,"  said  the  other  doctor, 
rather  severely,  as  though  Lawrance  were  doing  some- 
thing indecent,  standing  there. 

Xiawrance  dressed  and  walked  on  to  the  OflBce.    So  it 


A  CHASTE  MAN  251 

was  to  be  Switzerland  for  him.  Perhaps,  though,  Letty 
would  not  come.  He  did  not  know  what  he  hoped.  The 
medical  examination  had  taken  the  wind  out  of  his  sails, 
given  him  a  collapsed  helpless  feeling.  It  was  useless, 
then,  to  try  to  strike  out. —  That  rifle  that  had  been 
leaning  against  the  wall,  was  it  loaded?  he  wondered 
vaguely.  That  young  soldier  who  had  measured  and 
weighed  him  was  a  particularly  fine-looking  man — 
Passing  one  of  Cook's  offices  he  remembered  that  ap- 
plication forms  for  passports  could  be  obtained  there. 
He  went  in  and  got  two  of  them. 

Britton  was  in  the  Office  when  he  arrived ;  no  one  else, 
though  at  first  the  presence  of  the  large  grey  felt  hat 
had  led  him  to  expect  to  find  Mr.  Inge.  Then  he  re- 
membered. The  associations  of  that  hat — ^the  hotel  near 
Euston — Tof ton's  corpse — Olga — ^how  grotesque!  He 
stood  looking  at  it,  he  even  touched  it. 

*  *  Don 't  want  to  borrow  it  again,  sir,  do  you  ? ' '  Britton 
asked  grinning.  "Mr.  Crockerton  Deavitt's  been  round 
already,"  he  added.  "He  said  he'd  come  back  in 
thirty-five  minutes. ' ' 

"All  right.    Let's  have  a  look  at  the  letters." 

Before  Lawrance  had  finished  looking  through  and 
sorting  the  correspondence  a  telegram  was  brought  to 
him.  "From  Olga"  was  his  first  thought,  he  was  hit 
emotionally  below  the  belt,  in  the  pit  of  his  fluttering 
stomach.  But  the  telegram  was  from  Letty. —  "How 
exciting  of  course  I'll  come  Wednesday  noon  train 
Letitia." —  Yes,  she  would  be  excited,  and  happily. 
"Letitia"  was  the  name  between  them  when  any  pleas- 
ant stir  was  in  the  air.  * '  Now  then,  Letitia,  hurry  up  or 
you'll  be  late!"  How  often  he  had  said  that!  Espe- 
cially when  she  had  been  a  little  girl,  and  the  name  for 


252  A  CHASTE  MAN 

her  had  seemed  more  comically  incongruous.  Lawranee 
recalled  his  homecomings  from  Oxford,  when  his  pretty 
little  sister  used  to  run  out  to  meet  him,  in  her  short 
skirts  and  blue  jersey.  "Hulloa,  dear  little  Letitia!" 
How  bright  her  eyes  had  been,  how  active  and  well  she 
was  then !  She  would  be  well  again.  It  was  worth  go- 
ing to  Switzerland.  He  felt  ashamed  of  himself  for  hav- 
ing wanted  to  get  out  of  going.  It  was  sensible  of  Letty 
to  have  thought  of  telegraphing  to  the  Office.  ...  He 
was  very  fond  of  her.  ...  He  could  see  her  dear  brown 

eyes,  her  affectionate  mouth A   good  thing  he 

had  got  those  application  forms.  He  resolved  to  send 
one  to  his  sister  at  once:  she  could  fill  it  in  and  get  it 
endorsed  by  the  clergyman  at  Malstowe,  or  by  Doctor 
Peachey.  He  took  a  long  office  envelope,  addressed  it 
to  her,  and  wrote  a  few  lines:  "Very  glad  indeed  you 
are  coming" — then  he  told  her  what  to  do  with  the 
form:  she  must  hunt  out  a  small  photograph — and  so 
on. 

As  he  was  signing  his  name,  there  came  a  short  sharp 
tap-tap  on  the  door,  and  the  sideways  face  of  Mr,  Crock- 
erton  Deavitt  peered  into  the  room,  giving  the  impres- 
sion that  it  was  detached  from  his  body. 

*'  'Morning,"  he  said.  "Lovely  morning  'smoming. 
Best  morning  of  all  the  mornings  we've  had  for  several 
mornings.  Hulloa,  what's  that?  Passport  application 
forms  ?    Going  abroad  ? ' ' 

"Yes.     Switzerland." 

"Oh,  you  bar,  har  yer?"  Deavitt  sat  down  by  his 
side.  "Don't  mind  my  stopping  for  half  a  minute,  do 
you?  One  or  two  things  I  want  to  get  off  my  chest. 
I'm  off  to  the  country  this  morning,  so  thought  I'd  bet- 
ter take  the  tuniopporty.    Old  R.  D.  W.  turned  up 


A  CHASTE  MAN  253 

trumps."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "Got  on  the  job  at 
once.  Inquest  to-day.  They  won't  want  you  or  me. 
Just  as  well.  R.  D.  W.'s  bill  won't  be  anything  out  of 
the  way.  Quite  worth  it,  you  know,  from  our  point  of 
view.  He  knows  the  ropes.  Hope  it'll  be  all  right  for 
the  Glasden  Road  crowd.  Sure  to  be,  I  think.  R.  D. 
W.  was  a  bit  non-committal — cautious  old  bird — ^but  from 
what  he  said  I  fancy  there'll  be  no  serious  trouble. 
Medical  evidence  will  count  for  a  lot,  you  know. ' ' 

Lawrance  nodded.  He  wanted  Deavitt  to  see  that  he 
understood. 

"So  you're  o&.  to  Switzerland?     Be  away  long?" 

"Probably  two  or  three  months.  I'm  taking  my 
sister.  It  depends  on  how  she  gets  on.  She's  ill,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  I  see.    When  do  you  start!" 

"She's  coming  up  Wednesday." 

* '  She 's  not  in  town,  then  ? ' '  Deavitt  questioned  rather 
sharply. 

* '  No,  she  and  my  mother  live  down  at  Malstowe. ' ' 

* '  Oh — I  thought — Burphie  seemed  to  think  your  sister 
lived  in  London?" 

Lawrance  blushed,  remembering.  That  lie  about  Olga 
being  his  sister,  how  it  was  always  coming  back  at  him ! 
There  was  something,  it  seemed,  in  what  he  had  been 
told  in  his  childhood —  "What  a  tangled  web  we 
weave,"  and  the  rest. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  "in  Malstowe.  Did  you  get 
that  paymaster  job  ?"  he  added  quickly. 

' '  Yes ;  panned  out  all  right.  The  Colonel  was  in  beau- 
tiful working  order.  'B.W.O.'  as  they  say  in  the 
Church.  Not  half  a  bad  screw,  either.  I  shall  be  keep- 
ing up  two  homes  and  going  racing.    I  go  to  Woolwich 


254  A  CHASTE  MAN 

later  in  the  week.  Then  to  Calais  or  the  Base  after  a 
bit.  Old  Israfel  tells  me  I'm  perfectly  safe  from  bombs 
or  shells.  You  better  look  me  up  on  your  way  back  from 
Switzerland.  Shan't  see  you  again,  I  suppose.  You 
haven 't  your  Swiss  address,  have  you  ? ' ' 

"No.  Letters  to  the  Office  will  be  forwarded.  Let 
me  know  what  I  owe  for  R,  D.  Walsh,  won't  you?" 

"All  right.     I'll  send  you  the  bill  for  your  whack." 

As  he  was  shaking  hands  and  saying  "Ta-ta"  Lord 
Burpham  came  in.  Seeing  his  cousin,  Deavitt  whipped 
out  his  handkerchief  and  hung  it  over  his  own  face. 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  He  turned  to  Lawrance  and 
whispered  hoarsely.  "We  don't  speak  since  he  started 
playing  the  oboe. ' '  With  his  handkerchief  veil  he  stood 
stiffly  pressed  close  to  the  wall,  with  his  hands  by  his 
sides. 

* '  Well,  Crockerton, ' '  Lord  Burpham  affably  addressed 
him. 

"Discovered!  ha!"  ejaculated  the  other,  snatching  the 
handkerchief  from  his  face.  "If  I  am  discovered,  I  am 
lo-host!  Penetrated  me  disguise  with  his  eagle  eye! 
Who'd  have  thought  it?" 

"Playing  the  clown  as  usual,  eh?" 

"No,  Georgie,  it's  my  Monday  off.  I  say,  Master 
Horace  has  got  me  that  paymastership.  What  d'you 
think  of  that?" 

"You  don't  deserve  it.    I  wish  I'd  told  him  so." 

"I  got  in  first,  though,  didn't  I,  cockle?  All  because 
you  won't  get  up  early  in  the  morning." 

"Well,  Mr.  Lawrance."  Lord  Burpham  turned  to 
him.    "Mr.  Ralston  in  yet?" 

"No.    Mr.  Inge  hasn't  come,  either." 

"I  particularly  wish  to  see  Mr.  Ralston." 


A  CHASTE  MAN  255 

"Can't  be  done,  I'm  afraid,"  Deavitt  whipped  in. 
"Quite  imposs.  His  hours  are  from  twelve  to  two,  with 
an  hour  and  a  quarter  off  for  lunch.  Didn  't  you  know  ? 
And  our  young  friend  here's  going  off  to  Switzerland. 
Don't  think  we  ought  to  allow  it,  do  you?" 

"Switzerland?  H'm?"  Burpham  looked  inter- 
rogatively. 

"Yes,  my  sister's  ill.  I've  got  to  take  her  out  and 
look  after  her." 

"Dear,  dear.  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  No  idea  she 
was  seriously  ill.     Very  sorry." 

"I  was  going  to  ask  if  you'd  mind  signing  this  ap- 
plication form."  Lawrance,  embarrassed,  spoke  to  di- 
vert his  interlocutor. 

"Certainly,  certainly."  Burpham  took  the  form. 
"Let's  see.  'Fit  and  proper  person  to  receive  a  pass- 
port'—  But  I'm  not  a  banker  or  a  doctor  or  a  clergy- 
man. Ah,  yes, — magistrate — I  see.  Certainly. 
'Miss  Olga  Lawrance.'  I'm  sure  I  wish  her  the  very 
best  of  luck — speedy  recovery — I  think  the  name  was 
'Olga'?" 

"Oh,  this  is  a  Form  for  me."  Lawrance  blushed 
deeply;  he  had  seen  Deavitt 's  wink  at  him.  Of  course 
Deavitt  would  find  out;  he  had  known  he  would,  all 
along.     "I've  sent  my  sister's  on  to  her." 

"All  right,  then."  Burpham  looked  a  shade  put  out 
and  a  shade  puzzled.  He  moved  over  to  a  table,  with 
the  paper  in  his  hand. 

"I  twig,"  Deavitt  whispered.  "The  Germans  have 
taken  Peckham  Rye,"  he  added  loudly.  "Oh,  yes,  in- 
deed, auntie.  And  now  they've  got  it  they  say  they 
don't  want  it.  But  Kitchener  told  'em  they'd  got  to 
keep  it. —    Good  gag,  eh?    Well,  I'm  off.    Have  to  get 


256  A  CHASTE  MAN 

down  to  Weston.  Three  of  my  families  down  there. 
Bye-bye!"     He  made  his  usual  despatch. 

Lord  Burpham  made  a  good  deal  of  the  application 
form.  ' '  This  won 't  go  abroad,  will  it  ? "  he  said,  a  little 
apprehensively,  and  then:  ''But  look  here,  it  seems  to 
me  you  ought  to  put  in  all  these  answers  first. —  Don't 
forget — ah — ^you  must  sign  your  name  in  full.  I'll 
wait  till  you've  done.  Be  careful  about  it.  We  want 
to  have  everything  in  order. —  Where  exactly  are  you 
going  in  Switzerland?"  He  spoke  with  an  official  im- 
portance. 

"St.  Franz."  Lawrance  took  the  paper,  and  began 
to  fill  it  in. 

'  *  St.  Franz !  Well — well. ' '  Lord  Burpham  sat  down 
again  and  stared  meditatively  at  the  wall.  He  crossed 
his  discreet  legs,  and  his  steady  blue  eyes  remained  fixed 
for  a  minute  or  two,  as  Lawrance  went  on  filling  up  the 
Form.  "Ah — yes,"  he  said  at  length.  "My  sister-in- 
law  is  out  there — curious  thing — with  her  mother.  I'll 
give  you  a  letter,  if  you  like." 

"Thanks  very  much."  Lawrance  looked  up.  He 
was  pleased.  He  had  noticed  that  Lord  Burpham  had 
been  distinctly  friendlier  ever  since  that  meeting  with 
Olga  at  the  theatre.  Of  course  he  thought  that  the 
letter  of  introduction  was  to  include  her.  That  was 
why.  .  .  .  Shame  clouded  the  young  man's  pleasure. 
He  blushed  again. 

"My  sister-in-law  is  Lady  Blanche  Voltalin,"  Burp- 
ham went  on,  with  a  dry  abstracted  air.  "Trouble  with 
her  throat;  soon  after  my  poor  brother's  death.  But 
she's  much  better,  much  better.  I  heard  from  Lady 
Petistree — ^her  mother — ^the  other  day.    They're  both 


A  CHASTE  MAN  257 

very  tired  of  being  out  in  that  place;  it's  a  dull  hole,  I'm 
afraid.  You'll  cheer  one  another  up.  I'll  post  you  the 
letter  to-night —  Not  at  all.  Very  glad.  You'll  have 
to  get  a  Visa  at  the  French  Consulate,  of  course. —  You 
know  that?  Great  nuisance  it  is,  you  have  to  wait  for 
hours,  standing  up.  But  perhaps  Cook's  can  manage 
that  for  you —  Dear  me,  I  do  wish  Ralston  would 
hurry. —  What  do  you  think  of  my  cousin  Crockerton  ? 
Never  knew  any  one  so  fond  of  playing  the  fool.  He's 
a  little  mad,  really.  Can  be  very  annoying.  Not  a 
bad  sort,  though,  really — at  bottom.  No.  And  under- 
stands architecture.  ..." 

Lawrance,  as  he  finished  filling  in  the  form,  could  not 
resist  the  conviction  that  Lord  Burpham  was  thinking 
all  the  time  about  Olga.  It  was  quite  unlike  him  to  be 
talkative  in  this  way.  he  seemed  to  be  covering  a  pre- 
occupation, Lawrance  felt  oddly  triumphant,  trium- 
phant in  his  own  person.  He  got  up  and  handed  over 
the  Form.  Lord  Burpham  took  out  his  glasses,  and  read 
it  over  with  a  deliberate  magisterial  air. 

' '  All  right, ' '  he  said.  ' '  That 's  all  right.  I  '11  sign. ' ' 
Further  colloquy  followed.  Burpham  reminded  the 
young  man  that  he  must  also  have  his  photograph  en- 
dorsed **by  me,  as  guarantor";  told  him  that  he  could 
get  it  taken  at  a  moment's  notice  at  a  place  in  the  Strand, 
near  the  Foreign  Office.  * '  They  make  a  speciality,  a  spe- 
ciality." Lawrance  had  better  post  it  to  him,  to  Queen 
Street,  for  endorsement  as  soon  as  possible.  The  matter 
was  very  seriously  taken.  Mr.  Ralston 's  arrival  precipi- 
tated its  conclusion,  to  the  relief  of  Lawrance  who  was 
beginning  to  get  nervous.  Mr.  Ralston  did  not  take 
kindly  at  all  to  the  prospect  of  Lawrance 's  departure. 


258  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"You  must  talk  to  Mr.  Inge,"  he  said  severely,  two  or 
three  times:  "You  must  talk  to  Mr.  Inge."  He  then 
withdrew  with  Lord  Burpham  to  his  private  room. 

Lawrance  found  that  he  was  undisturbed.  Inge  would 
splutter,  he  knew,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped.  How  won- 
derful Olga  was,  how  intensely  to  be  desired!  Lord 
Burpham 's  concealed  but  motive  admiration  thrillingly 
heightened  his  consciousness  of  how  wonderful  and  how 
desirable  she  was.    He  forgot  Letty. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  aloofness  tliat  came  upon  the  young  man 
gave  him  a  peculiar  sense  of  power. 
Everything  was  insignificant,  and  he,  with 
the  strength  and  the  reality  of  his  passion  for  Olga, 
could  dominate  it  all.  The  machinery  of  his  will  moved 
with  perfect  ease  and  certainty,  in  an  inevitable  drive. 
It  took  in  the  remonstrances  of  Mr.  Inge  and  smoothly 
reduced  them  to  an  unavailing  pulp.  ' '  Well, ' '  Inge  had 
said  at  last,  "I  suppose  it's  necessary.  You  certainly 
seem  to  have  made  up  your  mind."  Lawrance  was,  at 
every  point,  enabled.  His  conversation  with  Inge,  his 
arrangements  for  carrying  on  some  of  his  work  by  post, 
his  getting  his  photograph  taken  at  the  Strand  shop,  the 
couple  of  reviews  that  he  wrote — all  were  immaterial  ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  they  had  to  be  done  with  before  he  could 
go  on  to  Olga.  The  prospect  of  St.  Franz,  though  it 
was  none  the  less  sure,  had  faded :  his  girl  shut  out  the 
future.  He  would  see  her  that  evening,  and  to-morrow : 
he  was  centred  there. 

Olga  opened  the  door  for  him.  He  held  her.  She 
said  nothing,  she  looked  tired,  but  she  welcomed  him  with 
bright  eyes  that  exalted  him  to  an  edge  tremulous  but 
secure.  He  could  not  realize,  though,  that  she  kissed 
him.  But  he  felt  that  her  look  banished  others  from 
them,  he  felt  that  everything  was  understood  in  a  new 
freedom.    He  had  the  conviction — ^how  beautifully  lit- 

259 


260  A  CHASTE  MAN 

teral  a  one  it  was! — that  he  had  never  been  so  happy. 
The  words  of  a  text  came  to  him  with  startling  inter- 
pretation: "I  live,  and  yet  not  I,  but — Olga  liveth 
in  me. "  "  Olga  in  me ! "  Yes,  it  was  so,  it  was  in  per- 
fect truth.  "She  is  come  that  you  may  have  life,  and 
that  you  may  have  it  more  abundantly."  This  was  no 
profanity;  profanity  was  not  even  suspected. 

*'My  girl!"  he  whispered  at  last. 

"Then  it  will  be  all  right  now,  won't  it?"  she  said,  a 
little  sadly. 

They  stood  apart,  and  he  met  the  gaze  of  her  washed 
green  eyes  that  gave  him  love,  though  they  were  sure 
of  nothing.  He,  for  his  part,  was  sure  then  that  he 
must  take  and  keep  her.  Her  eyes  dropped  and  were 
darkened  by  her  lashes.  Little  Marjorie  came  out  sud- 
denly from  the  dining-room. 

* '  Uncle  Lorrie ! ' '  she  cried,  too  much  excited  to  think 
of  kissing  him.  "It's  all  over!  What  do  you  think 
those  men  said  it  was?    'Wil-ful  murder'!" 

"What!" 

"Yes,  they  did !  Oo-er !  I  s'pose  it  must  be  true,  be- 
cause they  said  so." 

"Against  some  person  or  persons  unknown,"  Olga 
hurriedly  put  in. 

"It  was  exciting,"  Marjorie  went  on  eagerly,  "it  was 
like  a  story.  They  asked  us  all  a  lot  of  questions. 
There  was  a  man  who  called  me  'my  dear.'  I  told  him  I 
wasn't  his  dear.  Cheek!  They  laughed,  and  the  man 
who  was  put  up  at  a  desk  said  they  weren't  to.  He 
said:  'I  shall  clear  the  Court.'  "  She  frowned  and 
deepened  her  voice.  "He  was  very  cross,  and  said  I 
mustn't  say  anything,  but  answer  the  questions."  She 
continued  to  chatter  as  they  went  into  the  dining  room 


A  CHASTE  MAN  261 

and  Lawrance  greeted  I\Ir.  Flynn  who  was  there  alone. 
**  Uncle  Lance  said  that  he  and  Uncle  Tofty  had  had 
words  because  Uncle  Tofty  had  used  his  fountain-pen  and 
would  jab  the  point  when  he  wrote.  Uncle  Lance  gets 
angry  when  other  people  use  his  fountain-pen.  It's  the 
only  thing  that  makes  him  angry.    He  said — " 

"Well."  Lawrance  addressed  the  Mariner  under 
Marjorie's  flow.    "So  it's  all  over." 

"Yes,  we're  through  with  it.  Whole  damned  busi- 
ness. Lord  help  us,  what  a  fuss  about  nothing !  Why, 
they  don't  make  any  account  of  things  of  that  sort,  out 
in  British  East.  Poor  Patsey,  she's  upset,  though.  And 
no  wonder.  You'd  have  knocked  that  fellow  down, 
Lorrie,  if  you'd  been  there.  ]\Iuch  as  I  could  do  to  keep 
myself  under.  She  might  have  been  on  the  streets,  the 
way  he  talked  to  her !  Poor  Patsey !  Damned  swine ! ' ' 
Lawrance  noted  the  Mariner's  air  of  bravado.  He  didn't 
like  it.  It  was  a  deformity.  The  old  man  was  struggling 
uneasily — unnaturally.  He  was  cruelly  wrought. 
"Damned  swine!"  he  repeated. 

"I  saw  him!"  Lawrance 's  attention  returned  to 
Marjorie.  "I've  never  seen  any  one  dead  before.  He 
didn't  look  like  a  real  person.  I  don't  like  dead  people, 
do  you.  Uncle  Lorrie  ? —  Mother 's  been  up  in  her  room 
ever  since  we  came  back.  I  wish  she'd  come  down. 
She's  always  upstairs  now.  And  Doris  stayed  in  the 
train;  she  went  right  on,  when  we  all  got  out.  I  s'pose 
she's  gone  to  the  theatre,  though  that  isn't  till  evening, 
is  it?  I'm  going  to  sell  programmes,  too,  when  I  get 
older.  I'm  going  to  begin  when  I'm  fourteen.  Our 
house  smelt  of  stale  milk  yesterday — " 

"Sit  down,  my  boy.  Why  are  we  all  standing  up? 
My  legs  ache,  and  I  want  a  drink.    Marjie,  get  the 


262  A  CHASTE  MAN 

whiskey.  Patsey — poor  old  darling — she  doesn't  feel 
well.  And  Ewing — do  you  know,  Lorrie,  it's  a  damned 
shame,  it's  a  damned  outrage,  they've  given  him  the  sack 
at  his  Bank.  What 's  he  going  to  do  ?  He  asks  leave  off 
for  the  inquest,  they  give  him  his  pay,  and  tell  him  they 
don't  want  him  back.  He's  well  over  forty.  Out  now 
looking  for  a  job.  What's  his  chance?  You  know. 
He's  got  no  chance.  Of  course  we'll  keep  him  here,  of 
course  we  will — poor  fellow,  why  he's  smashed,  ain't  he? 
No  two  ways  of  looking  at  it — smashed. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  It  isn't  so  difficult  now 
for  a  man  over  military  age.  ...  I  might  be  able  to  do 
something.  But  you're  right,  it's  outrageous.  Peo- 
ple are  curs."  Lawrance  tried  to  feel  indignant,  but  he 
couldn't.     Ewing 's  misfortune  did  not  seem  to  matter, 

**The  fuss  they  make  about  a  thing  like  this!"  The 
Mariner  took  a  long  gulp  of  his  whiskey.  *'I  tell  you, 
Lorrie,  we  haven't  got  the  right  hang  of  things,  we 
don't  see  things  right.  Civilization.  .  .  .  Huh!  Life 
isn't  so  important  as  all  that.  Cowardice  at  the  bottom 
of  it — all  this  precious  worry  about  who  gets  killed  and 
who  doesn't.  The  war  ought  to  give  us  a  good  lesson — 
lesson  we  need.  Why,  when  I  was  out  in  British 
East.  .  .  .  Wish  I  could  pack  those  long-faced  jurymen 
out  there.  Stuffed  up  with  damn  nonsense  about  the 
sanctity  of  human  life  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  They've 
been  too  blasted  safe — ^too  blasted  safe  from  the  cradle 
on,  that's  what's  the  trouble  with  them.  In  British 
East,  in  my  time,  if  a  man  died,  he  died,  and  there  was 
an  end  of  it.  Same  way  in  Colorado,  in  the  old  days. 
Men  were  better  then,  too,  knew  how  to  live,  knew  how 
much  life  was  worth,  knew  how  much  death  was  worth, 
night  proportion.    Gosh !    If  a  nigger 's  dying  in  British 


A  CHASTE  MAN  263 

East  the  others  give  him  to  the  hyenas  or  bum  him — 
make  a  clean  job  of  it — no  corpses.  Good  instinct. 
That  fellow  Tofton,  he  was  dying — rotten  through  and 
through,  I  told  you.  Well,  it  was  a  clean  job  for  him — 
whoever  did  it.  Probably  did  it  himself — "  He  trailed 
off  on  an  uncertain  note. 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  verdict,"  said  Lawrance  in  a 
low  voice. 

* ' Oh,  what 's  it  matter  ?  'Person  or  persons  unknown. * 
Ought  to  have  said  'philanthropist.'  Ha!  ha!"  He 
drank  again,  finishing  his  tumbler.  His  eyes  were  rather 
rheumy.  "  'By  some  philanthropist  or  philanthropists 
unknown.'  "  He  laughed  loudly  and  blew  his  nose. 
' '  That  lawyer  you  sent  us  is  all  right.  Good  idea.  Not 
his  fault  they  didn't  bring  it  in  felo  de  se." 

"We  shan't  get  any  supper!"  Marjorie,  who  had 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  appeared  again.  "Mother 
won't  come  down.  Olga,  do  stop  reading!  I'm 
hungry. ' ' 

"Don't  let's  trouble  about  cooking."  Lawrance  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Go  out  and  get  a  tongue 
or  something,  Marjorie.     That'll  be  all  right,  won't  it?" 

' '  I  don 't  believe  we  've  any  butter. ' '  The  child  looked 
grave. 

"Well,  get  anything  you  haven't  got."  He  gave  her 
five  shillings  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  paying  for  what 
Olga  was  to  eat. 

"Don't  like  this  briar!"  Mr.  Flynn  suddenly  ex- 
claimed. "D'you  know  I  broke  my  meerschaum?  Had 
it  for  years.  That's  a  stroke  of  real  bad  luck.  Dear 
old  meerschaum  gone.  Dropped  and  smashed  to  bits — 
Time  for  another  drink.  You  don't  drink  to-night, 
Lorrie,  you're  sipping  it.    I  never  drink  when  I'm  alone. 


264  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Never."  He  was  so  emphatic  that  Lawranee  suspected 
him.  "You  ought  to  have  heard  old  Ewing  at  the  show 
this  morning.     Good  as  a  play.    Wasn't  it,  Olga?" 

The  girl  started,  and  looked  up  from  her  book.  "It 
was  a  horrid  room,"  she  said.  "I  hated  that  ugly- 
room.  ' ' 

Mr.  Flynn  laughed  and  stretched  his  long  legs  out  over 
the  hearthrug.  "Old  Ewing — kept  asking  him  about 
the  night  before.  Very  curious  about  that.  Wanted  to 
find  out  what  sort  of  a  row  there 'd  been.  Ewing  says, 
oh,  yes,  there 'd  been  a  row.  'About  what?'  'About 
my  fountain-pen,'  he  says — ^very  indignant.  'What 
about  your  fountain-pen?'  'He  would  keep  using  it — 
without  my  leave.  He  writes  thick,'  says  Ewing,  'and 
I  write  fine.  He  jabs  the  nib  and  spoils  it.'  And 
there  was  Tofton  stiff  on  his  back  in  the  next  room — 
and — "  The  Mariner  drew  his  hand  across  his  throat 
and  gave  a  hoarse  clicking  sound.  "  'I  can't  write  with 
it  when  he's  been  at  it,'  says  Ewing,  'and  yesterday  he'd 
crossed  the  nib. '  Told  them  they'd  had  words — words!" 
Mr.  Flynn  leaned  further  back  and  laughed.  "Old 
Ewing  was  restive,  I  can  tell  you.  'He  did  it  on  pur- 
pose!' Coroner  thought  he  was  touched.  'Well,  he 
won't  do  it  again,  Mr.  Ewing,*  he  said.  'He'd  better 
not,'  says  Ewing.  'Better  not'!  What  d'you  think  of 
that?" 

"I  suppose  it  all  came  out  about  the  row  at  tea?" 

"In  a  sort  of  way.  Not  so  important  as  the  foun- 
tain-pen, though —  The  jury  were  fools.  They  had  the 
medical  evidence — you  know.  They  had  the  motive  all 
right.  What  more  did  they  want? — Doris  wasn't 
brought  in. ' '  He  turned  and  stared  into  the  fire.  ' '  No, 
act  at  all.    Much  better.    She  gave  evidence,  of  course. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  265 

Nothing  important —  I  wish  Patsey  would  come.  You 
know,  Lorrie,  I  never  see  her  now — upon  my  soul  and 
honour,  never  seem  to  see  her.  Of  course  she's  upset. 
Poor  old  dear — poor  old — "     He  drank  again. 

' '  I  hope  she  '11  see  me  to-night. ' '  Lawrance  continued 
to  give  his  whiskey  occasional  casual  sips.  He  did  not 
feel  like  drinking. 

"Wish  you  could  stay  the  night  with  us,  old  boy." 

* '  Well,  I  can.  I  should  like  to. ' '  Lawrance  was  con- 
scious of  boldness,  without  knowing  why.  Olga  put 
down  her  book. 

"That's  good:  that's  very  good." 

"My  wife  is  away,  you  see." 

"Ha.  Yes.  We've  a  spare  room  now. —  You  don't 
mind,  do  you?  No  reason  to  mind,  is  there?  Not  in 
the  least — ^not  for  a  man  of  sense. ' ' 

Lawrance  hesitated  for  a  moment.  It  certainly  was 
soon.  Then:  "Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mind,"  he  said. 
The  reflection  came:  "What  would  Mary  think?"  but 
again  he  felt  bold.  He  ejected  considerations  of  Mary. 
But  he  could  not  look  at  Olga,  though  he  wanted  to. 
"May  I  stay  with  you  two  nights?"  he  asked  suddenly, 
after  a  pause. 

"Stay  all  the  nights  you  want.    More  the  better." 

* '  Ah,  but  I  'm  leaving  London ! ' '  Lawrance  saw  that 
Olga  started;  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"What!    Not  for  long,  though,  are  you?" 

"Perhaps  for  some  months.  I'm  going  to  Switzer- 
land with  my  sister."  He  spoke  rapidly.  "She's  ill, 
she  must  go.  There's  no  one  else  to  take  her.  My 
mother's  an  invalid." 

There  was  silence.  The  old  man  moved  his  bearded 
ohin  up  and  down,  he  smacked  his  lips,  then  spat  in  th^e. 


266  A  CHASTE  MAN 

dying  fire.  ''Bad  news  for  us,"  he  said  at  last.  "We 
were  counting  on  you,  Lorrie.  You  understand. 
We've  no  friends — except  Ewing." 

Lawranee,  turning  to  Olga,  on  resolve,  caught  the 
girl's  stricken  look.  Her  face  seemed  laid  bare,  it  was 
a  woman's  face.  She  got  up,  drawing  her  breath,  and 
left  them. 

"You've  upset  her,  Lorrie.  You'll  be  upsetting  us 
all." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry — " 

"The  girl's  fond  of  you.  She's  yours.  She's  not 
one  of  these  English  girls.  She's  worth  more —  You 
know,  Lorrie — ^she  means  more.  She's  deeper.  Can't 
express  it,  but  you  know.  These  last  few  weeks,  I've 
been  sure.  She's  the  best  of  the  three — always  will  be. 
I  've  always  cared  most  for  her.    Haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes.    I  love  her." 

"What,  an'  your  going  away?" 

"I  must.  Why,  what's  the  use?  You  know  I'm  mar- 
ried. From  the  practical  point  of  view — morality 
apart — " 

"You  could  make  her  happy,  all  the  same — " 

Lawranee  shook  his  head. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  The  Mariner  was  violent. 
"What's  it  all  about?  All  this  cant  people  talk. 
We're  here  for  fifty  or  sixty  years — beggarly  snatch — 
and  we  go  picking  our  way  between  the  joins  of  the 
paving-stones  under  our  feet,  all  the  time, — like  a  lot  of 
damn  degenerate  paranoiacs!  We  ought  to  walk  with 
a  free  stride!  What  do  those  dividing-lines  mean?" 
He  raised  his  voice,  the  veins  stood  blue  on  his  high 
flushed  forehead.  "Nothing  at  all — accidents — arbi- 
trary—    Olga's  yours:  it  doesn't  happen  often, — ^not 


A  CHASTE  MAN  267 

like  that, — ^you're  lucky,  both  of  you, — take  her.  Take 
one  another.  Why,  Lord  have  mercy,  are  you  running 
away  from  the  girl  ?  Best  thing  for  her ;  best  thing  for 
you  both —    Stuff  and  nonsense!" 

"It's  all  very  well."  Lawrance  was  bewildered. 
*  *  You  wouldn  't  say  that  if  you  were  her  real  father. ' ' 

"And  isn't  she  Patsey's  daughter?  And  don't  we 
know  you?  Aren't  we  your  friends?  I  talk  like  this, 
because  I  see  straight.  It's  my  talking  that  hits  you. 
There  are  plenty  of  others  who  might  think  it,  and  keep 
it  to  themselves.  Haven't  the  courage.  1  look  things  in 
the  face." 

"I  don't  believe  Patsey  would  agree  with  you!" 

The  Mariner's  fixed  gaze  at  him  shook  slightly:  his 
old  eyes  were  for  a  moment  furtive.  "Didn't  she  let 
the  girl  go  with  you  that  night?"  he  asked  defiantly. 

"You  know  why.  That  was  different.  She  didn't 
want  to,  either.  Any  one  could  see —  And  Olga  was 
safe, ' '  he  added  proudly.     ' '  Patsey  knew  she  would  be. ' ' 

"Oh,  she  was  safe!  I  knew  that  as  soon  as  she  came 
back." 

' '  Didn  't  you  know  it  before  ? ' ' 

"Patsey  didn't,"  he  evaded.  "Do  you  think  a 
mother  ever  knows  that? —  But  Patsey  feels  as  I  do. 
She  wouldn't  say  so,  but  she  does, — in  her  heart.  Why, 
she  must.  Good  Lord!"  His  hands  trembled:  he  was 
excited. 

' '  You  're  wrong ! '  *  Lawrance  was  passionately  in  arms 
against  this  assault  upon  the  value  of  his  sacrifice. 
"We  aren't  in  the  kind  of  world  you've  got  in  your 
mind — " 

"If  we're  not  strong  enough  to  make  our  own  world 
we  ought  to  be  kicked !    And  we  get  kicked,  too !    Look 


268  A  CHASTE  MAN 

here — keep  their  law,  do  the  right  thing,  as  they  call  it. 
What's  your  gain,  eh?  It's  the  anarchist  that  scores 
here.  I  suppose  you  think  good  deeds — huh !  '  good ' ! — 
bring  good  fruit.  It's  not  how  things  are.  You  think 
you're  to  get  grapes  and  your  lip's  cut  with  a  crop  of 
thorns;  think  you've  got  figs,  and  they're  thistles  in 
your  beard.  I've  lived.  I  know.  I've  given  you  your 
chance  to  call  me  a  miserable  old  pandar, — ^not  a  chance 
I  'd  give  to  another  man  in  the  world :  I  know  better  than 
that.  Take  it,  if  you  like.  But  you  11  learn  that  what 
looks  like  a  bad  man  can  do  good  things, — what  looks 
like  evil  gives  good  growth, — and  the  other  way  round. 
All  the  time !  Wedge  yourself  up  in  their  blessed  code, 
you're  bound  hand  and  foot!  Good  and  evil!  Huh! 
Keep  your  eyes  open ! ' ' 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  Lawrance  's  resolution  hardened 
in  its  mould.  The  conviction,  strangely  ultimate,  that 
he  himself  could  never  be  so  loosed  and  so  scattered, 
that  in  such  a  dissolution  of  the  strands  that  bound  but 
held  him  he  would  perish,  took  its  place. 

* '  Of  course  I  don 't  think  you  're  a — a  pandar.  I  know 
you  're  honest,  but  I  'm  sure  you  're  wrong.  I  can 't  marry 
Olga.  I'm  a  husband;  it  won't  be  long  before  I'm  a 
father.  Think  of  the  position  for  her.  It's  common- 
sense.  And  there  is  something  in  the  rules  people  have 
made.  Anyhow,  there 'd  come  to  be  something  simply 
because  the  rules  are  there  and  have  been  working  for 
ages.  That  would  be  enough  of  itself.  Say  I  take  Olga. 
I  shut  everything  else  out  from  her."  He  stopped,  and 
then,  with  his  heart  beating  vehemently  and  his  eyes 
blurred  and  hot,  added:    "Suppose  we  have  a  child." 

*^*You  needn't.  You  aren't  an  infant,  Lorrie,  are  you? 
And.  things  like  that: — simply  depends  on  how  muck 


A  CHASTE  MAN  269 

money  you've  got.  A  detail.  Later  on — perhaps. 
Well,  and  do  you  think  we  wouldn't  like  a  son  of  yours 
in  our  family?" 

"You  must  see  that  it  wouldn't  mean  happiness  for 
Olga,  in  the  end?" 

"Question  of  degree.  Not  many  of  us  get  happiness, 
— ^not  steady  and  unmixed.  Your  leaving  Olga  won't 
make  her  happy.  Suppose  you'd  like  her  to  have  some- 
body else?" 

' '  She  won 't !     I  'm  not  giving  her  up ! " 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not.  How  could  I?  Oh,  you  don't 
understand  at  all!" 

"No,  I  don't.  That's  right.  I  don't.  There's  noth- 
ing  to  be  understood,  God  help  us !  You  won 't  take  her 
and  you  won't  leave  her;  you  want  what  can't  work — " 

' '  Oh,  you  don 't  know  what  may  happen ! ' ' 

Lawrance  suffered.  He  felt  as  though  the  old  man 
were  taking  him  by  the  head,  twisting  it  round,  forcing 
him  to  a  view  that  he  hated  and  denied,  with  a  denial 
stultified  by  his  hatred. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then?  What's  your 
plan?" 

"You've  no  right  to  question  me!  I  haven't  got  it 
worked  out  like  a  proposition  of  Euclid.  Olga's  very 
young.  We  can  take  things  as  they  come  to  us.  There 
may  be  some  way — later.  I  can't  give  her  up:  I  won't 
give  her  up ! " 

"You're  going  off  to  Switzerland.  You  better  take 
care.  Not  a  wise  move.  You'll  lose  her.  I  know  the 
girl, — know  her  well,  too.  Didn  't  you  see  her  face  when 
you  said  you  were  going?  She's  not  a  child.  She's 
older  than  girls  of  twenty.    I  don't  know  what  she'll  do, 


270  A  CHASTE  MAN 

but  it  won't  please  you,  and  the  pity  of  it  is  it  won't 
please  her. —  When  you  come  back,  you'll  be  just  as 
much  married  as  you  ever  were,  won 't  you  ?  You  're  too 
much  afraid,  Lorrie,  that's  the  trouble.  You're  going 
to  Switzerland  because  you  want  to  put  off.  Don't  tell 
me  that  any  young  fellow  wiU  sacrifice  himself  and  his 
girl  to  his  sister.  Not  in  human  nature.  For  the  mat- 
ter of  that,  you  could  perfectly  well  take  your  sister  out, 
settle  her  in,  and  leave  her  there.  It 's  only  a  chance  that 
that  isn't  what  you've  got  to  do.  You're  doing  the 
wrong  thing.  You'll  be  sorry  for  it. —  You  wouldn't 
do  it  if  you  faced  probabilities.  What's  the  good  of 
fooling  yourself  with  the  off-chance  of  this  or  that? 
Moonshine!  A  good  General  doesn't  reckon  on  off- 
chances — " 

**He  does,  if  that's  all  he  has  to  reckon  on."  Law- 
rance  was  bitter  and  dogged.  "I've  a  reason.  I  can't 
put  Olga  on  a  lower  level  than  my  wife.  I  can't — I 
don't  choose  to — degrade  her  like  that.  Don't  you  see" 
— he  tried  to  warm  up  convincingly — "that  it's  mon- 
strous for  the  one  I  love  to  be  made  inferior — ? 
Why—" 

He  had  fallen  back  heavily  on  this  idea,  which  had, 
since  the  day  before,  been  working  its  growth  all  the 
more  obstinately  in  his  mind  because  that  growth  was 
adventitious  and  forced. 

The  old  man  raised  his  grey  eyebrows  and  stared. 
"Superstition,"  he  said.  "And  you  know  it  as  weU  as 
I  do." 

Lawrance,  feeling  that  he  could  not  argue,  grew  angry, 
and  still  more  tenacious  of  the  "reason"  that  he  had 
foisted  on  himself.    It  was  a  glove  for  the  hand  of  the 


A  CHASTE  MAN  271 

inhibition  that  was  stronger  than  his  desire — of  a  more 
constant  and  inherent  strength. 

"It's  the  way  I  feel,"  he  heavily  asserted:  to  which 
declaration  of  ethical  sentiment  the  Mariner 's  only  reply 
was  a  long,  slow,  drink. 

They  were  silent  till  Marjorie  came  in  to  lay  the  cloth 
for  supper. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THERE  were  only  four  of  them  at  the  meal. 
Mrs.  Flynn  stayed  upstairs:  and  she  was  not 
again  mentioned,  except  by  Marjorie,  whose 
rather  woful  little  chatter  was  baulked  by  the  silence 
of  her  three  companions.  Ewing  did  not  return,  nor  did 
Doris:  once  Lawrance  asked  where  she  was,  and  Olga 
said:  "She's  ill;  she's  gone  to  the  doctor."  Olga's 
eyes  were  veiled  as  she  spoke;  her  tone  was  indifferent, 
and  diminished  as  it  were  by  distance. 

Lawrance,  indeed,  felt  himself  surrounded  by  dis- 
tances. He  had  anticipated  nothing  of  this:  he  had 
reached  out  to  a  nearness  to  these  friends,  to  a  nearness 
to  Olga.  He  had  thought  that  he  would  set  a  seal  on 
the  formless  future.  But  Olga  hardly  seemed  to  be 
there :  as  the  meal  went  on  he  ceased  to  give  her  his  looks ; 
he  found  himself  viewing  her  in  the  mirror  of  past  time. 
All  that  sense  of  power  that  he  had  had  was  melted :  the 
world  apart  from  Olga  was  just  as  insignificant,  but  its 
insignificance  had  no  call  on  any  dominating  force  from 
him.  Was  it  because  of  what  the  Mariner  had  said,  was 
it  because —  ? 

Suddenly  Marjorie  cried:  "I've  made  your  bed  in 
Uncle  Tof ty  's  room ;  I  got  out  the  clean  sheets ! ' ' 

"All  right,  Marjie.     Thanks." 

"Yes,  it's  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  next  to  Olga's. 
Doris  and  I  sleep  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  I'll  come 
in  and  wake  you  in  the  morning.  It's  fun,  your  sleep- 
ing here,  isn't  it?" 

272 


A  CHASTE  MAN  273 

Lawrance  was  answering,  but  stopped,  distracted,  as 
he  saw  that  Olga  trembled. 

"I'm  going  to  bed  d'rec'ly  after  supper,"  Marjorie 
went  on.  "I'm  tired.  Olga,  aren't  you  tired?  Don't 
let's  wash  up  tonight.  I  shan't  have  to  go  to  school 
tomorrow  morning,  shall  I?  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Dea- 
vitt  ?     When  is  he  coming  again  ? ' ' 

Lawrance  gave  her  news  of  Mr.  Deavitt. 

The  Mariner  hardly  uttered  a  word,  and,  after  sup- 
per, when  Olga  and  Marjorie  had  left  them,  he  was  no 
less  silent.  He  kept  doing  innumerable  little  things :  he 
cleaned  his  pipe  with  a  feather,  he  scraped  the  bowl,  he 
filled  his  pouch,  and  his  matchbox,  he  walked  round  in 
search  of  his  slippers :  he  was  earnest  with  these  trifling 
activities.  He  kept  putting  his  head  to  one  side,  dis- 
playing his  brown  crinkled  neck,  he  laid  his  forefinger 
meditatively  to  the  side  of  his  long  well  modelled  nose. 
He  drank  no  more,  nor  did  Lawrance.  Lawrance  grew 
nervous  with  him,  wanted  to  go  away.  He  could  not 
keep  on  in  this  wrong  current. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  bed."  He  got  up.  "It's  early, 
I  know,  but — "  He  held  out  his  hand,  which  the  Mar- 
iner took,  without  looking  at  him.  They  wished  one  an- 
other goodnight. 

In  the  deceased  Claude  Tof ton's  room  Lawrance  sat 
still  for  a  long  while.  He  had  recoiled,  on  his  entrance, 
from  the  look  of  the  bed,  and  he  sat  with  his  back  to  it. 
The  clean  white  linen  seemed  funereal.  He  shrank,  too, 
from  the  very  personal  reminder  given  him  by  the  col- 
lection of  Tof  ton's  ties,  hanging  with  uneven  ends  on 
a  peg.  What  were  they  going  to  do  with  the  man's 
things?  There  was  a  brown  leather  collar-box  on  the 
dressing-table.    On  a  long  nail  by  the  door  was  hang- 


274  A  CHASTE  MAN 

ing  a  washbag  that  bulged, — full,  no  doubt,  of  Tof ton's 
last  week's  dirty  linen  that  would  normally  have  gone 
to  the  wash  that  morning.  Who  would  attend  to  all 
these  details?  Those  soiled  clothes — with  their  recent 
contact  ?  Civilization  certainly  made  things  uglier :  now 
a  sudden  death  among  savages.  .  .  .  Lawrance  let  his 
thoughts  run  in  and  out:  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground.  In  that  bed  to-night  he  would  be  the  sup- 
planter  of  a  corpse —  A  bathmat  had  been  put  just  in 
front  of  the  dressing-table.  Everything,  he  had  noticed, 
was  very  neat.  They  had  cleared  things  away:  why 
should  they  have  left  just  the  ties,  the  collar-box,  and 
the  washbag  ?  Lawrance  was  glad  he  had  not  seen  Tof- 
ton.  .  .  . 

He  reflected  on  the  Mariner's  point  of  view,  beginning 
with  an  embrace,  in  forced  urgency,  of  the  conviction 
that  the  old  man  was  utterly  wrong.  If,  agreeing  with 
him,  he  could  act  as  though  he  were  right,  he  would 
shatter  himself  altogether.  It  was  his  unrealized  egoism 
that  kept  him  on  the  side  of  virtue.  The  one  sacrifice 
that  was  not  possible  to  Lawrance  was  the  sacrifice  of 
his  individual  inelasticity.  Then  the  fact  of  his  having, 
with  such  tremendous  completeness,  his  chance,  brought 
into  fierce  action  all  his  instinct  for  refusal  and  restraint. 
In  his  conscious  mind  he  did  nothing  but  repeat  his  old 
"tags":  "It  would  be  the  wrong  thing":  "I  won't 
degrade  her":  "She  is  too  young":  "Every  decent 
man  would  say  I  was  right."  He  suffered,  and  was 
proud  of  his  suffering  with  almost  the  pride  of  a  cox- 
comb, though  he  was  too  much  of  a  "gentleman"  to 
allow  himself  to  appear  before  his  mind's  mirror 
as  "a  fine  fellow."  All  his  aim  was  towards  humil- 
ity. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  275 

Growing  cramped  on  his  little  cane-bottomed  chair,  he 
got  up  and  found  himself  looking  at  the  backs  of  some 
dozen  of  books  that  were  tidily  arranged  on  a  small  shelf. 
No  doubt  they  belonged — had  belonged — to  Claude  Tof- 
ton.  There  were  no  romances  of  Paul  de  Kock:  these 
were  innocent  works, — detective  stories,  humorous  stor- 
ies—  Lawrance  took  down  "Three  Men  in  a  Boat." 
Yes,  it  was  Tofton's:  "C.  Tofton,  Cliftonville,  August, 
1901"  was  written  on  the  flyleaf  in  a  bold  broad  hand, 
with  flourishes  and  a  thick  line  underneath.  No  wonder 
Ewing's  fountain-pen  sujSered. —  He  turned  the  pages, 
and  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  * '  George ' '  of  Mr.  Jerome 's 
story  rather  resembled  Tofton  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance, and  that  he  was  of  just  the  same  social  class.  You 
could  always  tell  if  a  man  was  not  a  gentleman  by  the 
way  he  wore  his  flannels.  That  way  of  wearing  them, 
either  unusedly,  without  ease,  or  with  a  bravado  of  lei- 
sure.—  Tofton,  in  flannels,  would  have  looked  like  this 
* '  George. ' '  He  would  have  called  them  ' '  whites. ' '  Was 
it  worth  so  much,  though,  to  be  a  gentleman?  If  he, 
Lawrance,  had  not  been  a  gentleman,  he  would  not 
have  married  a  lady.  He  wished  that  he  had  married, 
not  just  a  little  beneath  him,  as  he  had  done,  but  very 
flagrantly  beneath  him.  It  would  have  been  better,  it 
would  have  been  different.  .  .  .  Olga  was  not  of  any 
class. 

Lawrance  went  back  to  his  chair  with  the  book.  He 
had  not  read  it  since  he  was  thirteen, — sixteen  years 
ago.  For  that  reason  he  liked  the  idea  of  reading  it 
again. 

In  half-an-hour  or  so  he  heard  Olga's  step  on  the  stair- 
case, and  then  her  opening  of  the  door  of  the  room  next 
to  his.     The  old  man  had  come  up  some  time  before,  so 


276  A  CHASTE  MAN 

had  Marjorie.  Lawrance  strove  to  continue  to  read. 
He  gave  no  play  to  himself. 

It  was  without  any  patent  volition  that  he  left  his 
room  and  tapped  on  the  girl 's  door.  She  did  not  answer, 
and  he  went  in. 

'*0h!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  do  look  ill.'* 

She  was  sitting  at  a  little  desk,  looking  over  some  let- 
ters. She  wore  a  white  dressing-gown  of  fine  wool,  with 
silk  braidings  and  a  silk  cord.  Her  hair  was  loose  and 
hid  her  cheeks.  The  dressing-gown  reached  nearly  to  her 
ankles,  which  were  bare;  her  feet  were  in  old  slippers 
with  a  ragged  fur  lining.  The  bracelet  he  had  given 
her  on  that  birthday  was  on  her  wrist,  hanging  rather 
loosely.  How  slender  her  wrist  was!  So  slender  that 
he  felt  a  kind  of  fear.  He  stood,  with  the  door  ajar, 
looking  at  her. 

"I  never  said  goodnight  to  you,"  he  declared  in  a 
hot  dry  tone  of  assertion,  as  though  he  were  arguing  a 
point. 

**I  expect  you  were  tired.    I'm  tired — awfully." 

"That's  a  nice  dressing-gown."  His  hand  shut  the 
door. 

"He  gave  it  to  me." 

"Who?" 

Olga  pointed  her  thumb  towards  Tof ton's  room.  "I 
didn't  think  it  mattered,"  she  said  in  an  even  voice,  "if 
he  wanted  to." 

"Oh, — well;  I  suppose  not, — so  long  as — " 

"I've  been  wondering  if  these  things  people  make 
such  a  lot  about  do  matter  very  much  after  all." 

"Your  father's  said  anything?  He's  wrong,  Olga. 
Don't  you  believe — " 

"No,  he  didn't.    I've  been  saying  things  to  myself—; 


A  CHASTE  MAN  277 

I'm  not  happy  at  all.  Everything  seems  to  have — to 
have  gone  away.  You're  going  away!"  She  stood  be- 
fore him,  with  her  rich  young  head  drooped  and  her 
child 's  figure  a  little  swaying.  ' '  I  wish  you  hadn  't  kissed 
me  at  all — ever!  I  wish  you  hadn't  taken  me  away  that 
time — I  wish  I'd  stayed!  It  wouldn't  have  mattered. 
The  things  that  do  happen  are  the  worst,  not  the  things 
we're  afraid  will  happen.  If  we  stop  what's  coming, 
it's  so  much  the  worse —  After  this,  I'm  going  to  take 
everything  that  comes — everything.  The  other  way's 
wrong !  Oh ! "  She  put  her  hand  to  her  lips  which  were 
trembling  under  her  trembling  words.  She  turned  from 
him  to  the  window,  and  leaned  against  it,  with  one  arm 
raised. 

Lawrance  cleared  his  throat  with  a  queer  pedantic 
sound.  ''Can't  you  wait  for  me?"  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  white  curve  of  her  wrist  and  the  frail  begin- 
ning lines  of  her  arm  shown  by  the  dropping  of  her 
sleeve.     "  I  'm  coming  back ! ' ' 

She  didn't  answer:  she  leaned  her  head  a  little  fur- 
ther forward.  Her  neck  showed,  defenceless,  between  the 
falls  of  her  hair.  The  young  man  went  to  her  and  took 
her  quickly  in  his  arms. 

"You  must  believe  in  me,"  he  whispered.  "I  shall 
always  love  you.     I  shall  never  give  you  up ! " 

To  his  amazement,  she  laughed. 

"Olga!"  he  added,  rather  pompously.  "You  don*t 
believe  me,  then?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,  does  it, — do  you  think? — ^what  we 
sayf" 

She  was  sitting  on  his  knees  now,  on  her  bed,  one  of 
her  slippered  feet  toying  with  the  other.  She  sat  there, 
as  though  she  had  been  ten  years  old, — ^with  an  attentive- 


278  A  CHASTE  MAN 

ness  so  slight  that  it  was  almost  listless.  It  seemed  that 
she  was  tired,  but  not  quite  too  tired  to  listen  to  a  story. 

Lawrance  did  not  know  what  to  do.  His  attention  be- 
gan to  be  distracted,  painfully,  by  her  left  slipper,  which 
had  loosened  and  was  showing  her  smooth  heel.  He 
thought  of  the  marble  of  those  bridges  at  Venice,  marble 
that  was  warm, — worn  from  the  chill  of  its  first  surface. 
It  would  be  terrible,  he  thought  gravely,  if  the  slipper 
should  come  off.  How  far  could  his  own  endurance  be 
trusted  ?    Far  it  must  go. 

"It's  not  what  we  say."  He  spoke  at  last.  *'It's 
what  we  mean.    I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  mean. ' ' 

**But  I  know  you're  going  away." 

"But  if  I'm  fond  of  you  still — if  you — " 

"/  wouldn't  go  away.  It  doesn't — come  even.  It 
isn't  fair.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  want  you !  And  I  shall 
do — I  shall  do  whatever  happens.  I  don't  belong  to 
you!"  She  gave  her  foot  a  little  jerk,  so  that  the  slip- 
per at  last  fell  off:  she  began  rubbing  her  toes  against 
the  other  slipper's  edge  of  fur. 

Lawrance  looked  away,  but  the  pressure  of  his  arms 
on  her  tightened.  He  clung  to  the  sense  that,  for  all 
that  she  said,  she  was  belonging  to  him  more  than  ever 
before,  that  he  lived  in  her  more  surely.  "I  live,  and 
yet  not  I — "  He  had  never  felt  that  before  to-day,  not 
in  his  whole  life.  .  .  .  "When  he  was  nineteen  there  had 
been  a  phase  of  conversion  to  ritualistic  Anglicanism; 
he  remembered  that  now.  Then  there  had  been  some  hint 
of  this.  He  had  gone  to  Confession :  then,  as  now,  he  had 
been  purged  of  himself.  Lawrance  made  the  call,  in 
full,  upon  his  idealism,  and  Olga,  by  her  defencelessness, 
her  fatigue,  her  unhappiness,  unwittingly  gave  him  aid. 

"You  won't  do  that,"  he  told  her,  feeling  that  he  must 


A  CHASTE  MAN  279 

speak  to  be  safe,  though  his  words  seemed  to  try  to 
artificialize  his  emotions.  *' Can't  we  trust  each  other? 
It 's  not  brave  to  take  things  as  they  come,  it 's  not  intel- 
ligent,— is  it?  And  it  doesn't  work  out  right,  either. 
Think  of  poor  Doris ! ' ' 

"I'm  not  Doris.  And  I'd  just  as  soon  be  Doris,  any- 
how." 

She  put  up  her  bare  foot,  resting  it  upon  her  knee. 
Lawrance  felt  himself  rolled  up  like  a  wave  to  her,  and 
then  rolled  back, — again  and  again.  He  watched,  ab- 
sorbed: he  wondered  what  would  happen.  It  was  like 
the  first  tentative  stage  of  the  operation  of  an  angesthetic. 
He  began  to  feel  calm,  resigned,  irresponsible. 

"You  know — "  Olga  said  slowly,  "I  told  you;  I'm 
not  afraid  of  you.  I  thought  I  would  be  afraid,  I 
thought  I'd  be  afraid  and  happy, — excitingly  and  fear- 
fully and  terribly  happy.  You  made  me  think  that,  be- 
cause I'd  never  thought  it  before.  It  was  after  that 
time  we  were  in  the  cab,  after  the  theatre.  And  much 
more  later.  It  grew;  it  was  funny,  how  it  grew,  quite 
suddenly,  one  time  and  another,  I  knew  you  couldn't 
be  happy  in  that  way,  unless  you  were  afraid —  I  must 
be  afraid,  I  must  be! —  You  showed  me, — but  I  knew 
it,  really,  by  myself,  afterwards.  When  you  were  with 
me  that  morning  in  that  hotel,  I  was  sure.  It  had  been 
coming  all  that  time.  A  sort  of  fear  and  a  sort  of  joy: 
but  I  don 't  have  either ! ' ' 

"It's  I  who  am  afraid  of  you — " 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  troubled;  with  her 
frown.  "If  any  one  else  comes,"  she  said  painfully,  "it 
won't  be  the  same;  it  won't  be  what  I  thought.  But  it 
will  be,  in  a  way.  Ah, — I  thought  it  would  be  like  I 
said,  only  you  and  me  and  no  one  else — "    She  broke 


280  A  CHASTE  MAN 

off,  and  then,  with  a  bitter  and  ashamed  release  of  pas- 
sion: "It's  through  you!"  she  cried,  "it  ought  to  be! 
I  couldn't  say  it  to  anybody  else,  and  yet  you  don't 
understand !  You  're  the  first — doesn  't  that  matter  ? 
isn't  that  important? —  Sometimes — ^when  I've  thought 
of  you,  I  've  been  ashamed  of  things.  Do  you  know  what 
Doris  said  to  me  one  day?  She  said:  *I  wouldn't  like 
to  look  the  way  you  do;  it's  horrid!'  She  made  me 
worse  ashamed,  but  I  needn't  be  any  more, — ^need  I? 
I'm  not  going  to  be!    You — ^you — " 

She  put  her  light  arms  round  him,  and  to  his  breast 
her  shadowed  pale  face,  that  was  to  him  not  so  real  now 
as  the  face  of  a  dream.  He  knew,  and  did  not  know, 
that  she  kissed  him,  many  times.  He  was  under  com- 
pulsion to  stand  up. 

"Goodnight,"  he  said,  and  then  caught  sudden  sight 
of  himself  as  preposterous,  a  sight  determining  his  reso- 
lution. 

"What  is  it?"  She  drew  away,  but  held  him  still. 
**Is  it  your  wife?" 

"Oh,  Olga!"  He  snatched  at  the  old  false  reason. 
"She's  not  going  to  be  better  than  you!  You 
wouldn't — " 

"That  doesn't  matter — it  doesn't!  You  shan't  go!" 
she  cried  out,  looking  like  a  mother, — a  look  tragic,  dom- 
inating. The  whiteness  of  her  lips  and  the  usurping 
haggardness  of  her  face  enhanced  her  transformation. 
She  clung  to  him. 

"Don't  you  see  I  mustf"  But  her  sweet  and  bitter 
violence  was  deterring  him  from  the  goal  of  his  words 
at  the  moment  when  she  released  him. 

"You  shan't  stay  to-morrow!  No,  I  can't — I  hate 
you!    You've  taken  it  all  away  from  me!    I  didn't  be- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  281 

long  to  you — ^you're  not  mine — and  I  don't  want  your 
bracelet  any  more ! ' ' 

Her  changed  look,  as  she  pulled  at  the  bracelet,  which 
would  not  easily  come  unclasped,  chilled  him:  he  knew 
that  she  thought  him  a  fool,  and  that,  like  Muriel,  and 
as  Muriel  had  said  she  would,  she  despised  him:  de- 
spised him  for  his  feelings  and  his  principles  and  his 
half-measures,  for  his  set  resolve  that  cut  such  a  sorry 
figure  under  the  passion  that  shook  and  seared,  but  would 
not  boldly  break  it. 

'  *  There ! ' '  she  cried,  holding  the  bracelet  to  him,  then 
throwing  it  on  the  bed. 

He  fell  back,  after  that  moment,  on  being  what  he  was, 
on  doing  what  he  "had  to  do."  Those  waves  no  longer 
rolled  up  and  back  again,  but  a  single  drawing  tide  had 
come  for  him,  with  power  of  outer  reach.  She  gazed 
at  him,  with  losing  eyes,  from  the  distance  that  she  knew. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ST.  FRANZ  struck  Lawrance,  on  his  first  view,  as 
ugly  and  dirty.  The  snow  had  begun  to  melt  on 
the  lower  slopes;  further  up  it  lay  caked  and 
gleaming,  sometimes  with  a  bluish  whiteness  in  the  strong 
sun.  It  seemed  an  inhospitable  country,  unfriendly  to 
efforts  of  intelligence,  with  a  cold  machine-like  demand 
for  efforts  of  the  body.  The  little  houses  of  the  Chalet 
type  looked  all  as  though  they  had  been  put,  awkwardly, 
in  the  wrong  places ;  against  the  snow  they  had  a  yellow 
dirty  look,  a  look  that  was  on  everything, — on  the  piled- 
up  wood  seen  everywhere,  on  the  roads  scraped  of  snow, 
on  the  balconies,  with  their  chairs  and  beds,  their  rugs 
and  cushions,  on  the  plump  peasants,  with  their  heavy 
brows  and  stupid  faces.  They,  too,  had  this  yellow  dirty 
look,  even  though  they  were  rosy-cheeked. 

The  mountains  were  not  very  high:  after  the  other 
Alps  by  which  Lawrance  and  his  sister  had  passed,  they 
seemed  dwarfed.  Then  those  trees,  with  their  very 
bright,  their  painted,  green :  Lawrance  was  not  inclined 
to  accept  the  unfamiliarity  of  them,  either.  He  sat  in 
his  room  at  the  sanitarium — friends  and  relatives  of  pa- 
tients could  stay  there, — looking  away  from  the  window 
at  his  unopened  trunk.  Letty's  room  was  next  to  his. 
He  was  not  sorry  to  be  running  some  slight  risk  of  con- 
sumption. But  was  he  ?  The  people  here  took  all  man- 
ner of  precautions,  and  the  air  was  so  good.    Its  pe- 

282 


A  CHASTE  MAN  283 

culiar  rare  quality  did  not  suit  Lawrance's  heart,  he 
had  found  that  out  already;  he  was  breathless  and  a 
little  faint  from  walking  upstairs.  But  no  doubt  he  was 
tired  from  the  journey —  What  a  horrible  depressing 
place!  There  was  no  softness,  no  subtlety,  anywhere: 
it  was  made  for  hard,  insensitive,  brutal  people.  The 
very  flowers  had  no  caress  in  their  bloom;  they  were 
unfeelingly  bright,  like  those  trees  and  the  feathery  vivid 
green  grass  down  in  the  valleys. 

Letty  tapped  from  outside.  As  he  said  "Yes!"  he 
was  reminded  of  those  taps  of  Muriel's  on  the  communi- 
cating door  of  their  rooms  at  Malstowe.  "Was  there  al- 
wa3''s  to  be  another  woman — keeping  him  from  Olga — ■ 
tapping  at  his  door  ? 

* '  I  simply  love  this  place ! ' '  cried  Letty. 

She  looked  as  pretty  and  as  happy  as  he  had  ever  seen 
her:  yet  he  could  not  be  glad.  He  reproached  himself 
angrily,  as  he  had  many  times  reproached  himself  dur- 
ing their  journey.  The  higher  Letty 's  spirits,  the  more 
depressed  were  his  own,  in  obedience,  it  seemed,  to  some 
natural  law.  Lawrance  was  increasingly  convinced  of 
sin,  afflicted  by  his  own  immorality,  restive  under  it. 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  get  quite  well  here,"  Letty  went 
brightly  on.     '  *  Don 't  you  like  it  too  ? " 

* '  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  do. " 

"So  this  situation  of  mine  is  my  reward  for  virtue," 
he  was  thinking.  "Am  I  glad — can  I  be — that  I  left 
Olga  like  that?"  What  would  it  have  been  if.  .  .  . 
Would  his  arms  have  been  so  empty  then;  empty  by 
night,  empty  by  day  ? 

"There  seem  to  be  some  awfully  nice  people  staying 
here.  I  just  saw  such  a  handsome  young  man  in  the 
passage. ' ' 


284  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"I  daresay  there  are  lots  of  handsome  men." 

Yes,  that  was  what  he  had  felt,  when  he  had  got  back 
to  his  own  room  that  night,  that  his  arms  were  empty. 
A  void  striking  from  his  arms  inwards, — and  striking 
ever  since  then. 

''Where  is  it  that  those  people  of  yours  live,  Lady 
Petistree  and  Lady  Blanche — ?" 

'  *  Oh, — Villa  something.  I  've  got  the  letter  in  my  suit- 
case." 

He  should  be  wearing  the  garland  of  virtue.  If  he 
wore  it,  it  was  thorny,  and  he  could  not  be  proud  of  his 
pain  now. 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  place?  All  the  snow,  and  such 
bright  sunshine ! ' '  Letty  stood  on  tiptoe ;  she  threw  out 
her  arms.     ' '  I  feel  ever  so  much  better  already ! ' ' 

She  went  on  talking  as  he  got  up  and  looked  for  the 
letter  in  the  flap  of  his  valise.  "Here  it  is,"  he  told  her. 
"  'Villa  Kraus.'  " 

"What  a  horrid  German  name!" 

"Oh,  this  is  German-speaking  Switzerland.  All  the 
names  are  German." 

He  should  never  have  kissed  Olga  that  night  after  the 
theatre.  Yes,  that  was  the  beginning  of  everything. 
He  was  suffering  for  the  immorality  of  that,  not  for  the 
morality  of  his  later  refusals.     But  yet — 

"How  stem  you're  looking,  Oliver!  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter so  much  the  names  being  German,  does  it  ? " 

"Oh,  no!"  He  smiled  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
strain  his  cheeks.     "And  the  money's  French,  anyhow!" 

' '  Well,  that 's  something ! "  She  laughed.  ' '  Don 't  go 
losing  that  letter."  She  took  it,  and  read  aloud: 
"  'The  Countess  of  Petistree,  Villa  Kraus. — Introducing 
Oliver  Lawrance,  Esq.,  and  Miss  Lawrance.'    It  was 


A  CHASTE  MAN  285 

very  nice  of  Lord  Burpham,  wasn  't  it  ? — especially  as  he 
didn't  know  me.  But  of  course," — she  was  increasingly 
gay — ' '  he  knew  how  nice  you  were ! ' ' 

Lawrance,  thinking  of  the  intention  of  that  letter, 
looked  sterner  still.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "they  were  finding 
it  pretty  dull  here ! ' ' 

"I  expect  they're  the  kind  of  people  who  are  bored 
in  any  place  they're  not  used  to.  I'm  not  a  bit  like 
that.  I  don't  mean  to  be  bored.  I  don't  see  how  any 
one  can  be,  in  this  air!  Wasn't  the  journey  exciting, 
too?  Those  soldiers  in  red  trousers  guarding  the  rail- 
way lines !  I  shall  always  remember  seeing  that  bridge 
— you  know,  the  bridge  near  Amiens  that  they  showed 
us,  the  one  the  French  had  blown  up  when  the  Germans 
were  getting  so  near  Paris.  Fancy — they'd  been  fight- 
ing only  a  mile  or  two  off  from  where  we  were.  Then 
directly  we  got  into  Switzerland  everything  was  differ- 
ent—  I  suppose  they'll  stay  neutral ;  do  you  think  they 
will?" 

She  chattered  on,  sitting  on  his  bed.  He  felt  that  he 
was  without  life ;  even  the  flick  of  disliking  the  place  had 
left  him. —  How  curious  that  he  had  once  been  fright- 
ened by  the  idea  of  annihilation,  he  was  thinking,  as  he 
murmured  something  about  the  nuisance  of  their  having 
had  to  wait  so  long  at  Folkestone  and  Boulogne.  He  had 
never  before  reached  the  point  where  he  would  have 
deliberately  preferred  non-existence  to  existence. 

"Let's  go  out!"  said  the  girl,  teased  by  his  irrespon- 
siveness. 

He  told  her  that  she  ought  to  rest  after  the  journey. 
"Doctor  Meyer's  coming  to  see  you,  too." 

' '  Come  along ! ' '     She  did  not  argue. 

A  little  way  outside  the  sanitarium  they  passed  a  par- 


286  A  CHASTE  MAN 

ticularly  good  looking  young  man  of  about  Lawrance's 
age.  He  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and  bowed  to  them  with 
a  radiant  smile  that  showed  teeth  white  as  a  negro's. 
Lawrance  was  startled  out  of  his  apathy  into  the  obser- 
vation that  the  young  man  compelled.  He  was  beauti- 
fully dressed  in  grey;  his  double-breasted  coat  had  a 
perfect  hang,  and  his  brown  boots  looked  expensive,  but 
not  too  new.  His  young  but  not  boyish  face  was  ex- 
tremely sunburnt;  he  had  crisp  short  curls  of  a  blond 
gold,  glistening. 

Lawrance  turned  and  watched  the  receding  figure. 
''He's  going  to  the  sanitarium,"  he  said.  "He  can't  be 
ill,  surely?"  But  the  figure,  he  reflected,  might  be  too 
dainty  for  health.  Yes,  the  legs  and  waist  were  cer- 
tainly abnormally  slender,  though  the  shoulders  looked 
broad, — padded,  perhaps,  thought  Lawrance,  who  began 
to  feel,  mildly,  the  natural  male  resentment. 

"A  pretty  fellow,"  he  said  sarcastically. 

*'He  looks  awfully  nice,"  retorted  Letty,  who  had  not 
turned  to  look  back.  "He's  the  one  I  saw  in  the  pas- 
sage." She  flushed  slightly.  "He's  got  such  jolly 
eyes," 

"I  didn't  notice  his  eyes.  I  don't  like  his  mouth, 
though ;  and  what  the  deuce  does  he  mean  by  taking  off 
his  hat  to  us?" 

"Oh,  he's  in  the  sanitarium,  and  so  are  we.  I  sup- 
pose everybody  knows  one  another  here." 

*  *  I  don 't  in  the  least  want  to  know  that  chap. ' ' 

Letty  would  get  excited,  he  was  thinking ;  it  would  be 
worse  than  at  Malstowe.  Fellows  like  Phillips  were 
everjrwhere.  He  looked  at  his  sister,  whose  gaiety  was 
now  subdued.  She  was  not '  *  fast, ' '  certainly  she  wasn  't. 
She  was  a  "nice  girl,"  the  kind  of  girl  you  could  trust,  , 


A  CHASTE  MAN  287 

the  kind  of  girl  who  wouldn't  think  of  anything  "hor- 
rid." You  could  see,  from  her  wholesome  mouth  and 
her  confident  playful  eyes  that  she  was,  from  a  brother's 
point  of  view,  "the  right  sort."  She  remained  silent; 
he  saw  that  she  was  half  smiling. 

' '  Look  here,  Letty, ' '  he  said  rather  awkwardly.  * '  You 
must  keep  pretty  quiet  here,  you  know.  I've  got  to — 
you  know.    You  want  to  get  well,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I'll  get  well  all  right!  Don't  you  worry — and 
don't  be  silly." 

As  they  were  making  their  way  to  one  of  the  narrow 
mountain-paths  she  grew  suddenly  tired,  and  had  to 
rest.  They  came  back  to  the  sanitarium  slowly  and  by 
degrees,  though  the  way  was  short.  She  lay  down  on  a 
long  chair  on  the  balcony  outside  her  room:  she  was 
exhausted. 

Lawrance  felt  a  brute,  but  he  could  not  help  being 
glad  of  this  diversion  that  compelled  him  to  be  con- 
cerned. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  handsome  young  man  reappeared  the  next 
morning:  he  came  up  to  Lawrance  in  the  big 
bright  hall  of  the  sanitarium,  and  introduced 
himself.  Cyprian  Strange,  his  name  was.  Lawrance 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  if  his  manners  were  good: 
they  were  certainly  easy;  they  had  a  vivid  nonchalance 
that  was  unusual  and  taking.  He  succeeded  in  being 
companionable  at  once,  but  not  in  the  least  intrusive  or 
stressed.  *'He  doesn't  want  to  know  me,  confound 
him!"  thought  Lawrance,  as  young  Strange  amicably 
rippled  off  his  inquiries  and  his  suggestions.  *'It's  Letty 
he's  after.     This  is  his  first  move." 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do  like  the  place, — as  yet," 
he  replied  ungraciously  to  a  question  that  was  followed 
by  a  pause. 

**0f  course  you  don't.  No  one  could, — not  any  one 
with  any  intelligence,  any  taste.  We  poor  devils  have 
to  stay,  though.  You're  not  one  of  us,  I  can  see  that." 
The  tone  was  suave,  with  an  intentional  flavour  of  flat- 
tering jealousy.  "It's  a  dreadful  place.  As  these 
Americans  say,  it's  the  limit.  All  those  horrid  bric-a- 
brac  shops,  with  their  souvenirs  and  their  Tauchnitz 
books!  And  have  you  seen  that  semi-English  sporting 
hotel  where  people  arrive  in  cars  and  wear  knickerbock- 
ers and  tweed  suits?  I  can't  stand  the  very  name  of 
Harris  tweed,  can  you?"  He  eyed  Lawrance  tenta- 
tively. 

288 


A  CHASTE  MAN  289 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  the  dirty  look  of  everything 
that  gets  on  my  nerves.  And  the  climate  doesn't  suit 
me,  either." 

"You're  right;  you're  right,  sir!  The  whole  place 
does  look  soiled.  Odd  that  that  should  have  struck  you, 
too.  And  then  there's  that  abominable  cemetery, — but 
look  here," — he  began  to  speak  eagerly,  still  keeping  his 
bright  and  not  large  hazel  eyes  on  his  interlocutor,  ' '  you 
wait  till  you  get  to  know  some  of  the  people, — some  of 
the  patients,  some  of  us.  We  're  a  fine  lot,  I  can  tell  you ! 
All  nationalities —  Are  you  doing  anything?  We 
might  go  out  and  I  could  tell  you." 

"It  won't  be  too  much  for  you?"  Lawrance  did  not 
disguise  his  reluctance. 

"Well,  it's  some  time  since  I  had  my  last  little 
haemorrhage. ' ' 

They  went  out  into  the  liberal  sunlight.  Lawrance 
felt  quite  as  though  his  arm  were  being  taken,  but  it 
wasn  't :  he  glanced  sharply  at  Cyprian  Strange,  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  not  being  touched. 

"There's  a  Kussian  here, — or  I  believe  he's  a  Pole, — 
he's  the  most  entertaining.  Desperately  in  love  with  a 
little  Italian  girl  who  won't  look  at  him.  They're  ro- 
mantic, these  Poles."  Lawrance 's  attention  quickened 
at  the  mention  of  a  nationality  in  which  Olga  had  a 
share.  "He  shot  himself.  Through  the  chest,  too,  but 
he  didn't  die.  He'd  been  given  up  because  of  his  lungs 
long  ago.  But  now  he's  getting  better,  and  his  doctor 
thinks  he  '11  recover.  His  one  wish  now  is  that  he  should 
live  and  the  girl  die.  Very  likely  she  will.  To  round 
the  story  off,  she  ought  now  to  be  hopelessly  in  love  with 
him,  but  I'm  afraid  she  isn't."  He  stooped,  picked  a 
bright  flower,  and  put  it  in  his  buttonhole. 


290  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"Are  there  many  love-affairs  among  the  patients?" 

"All  the  time."  Young  Cyprian  spoke  with  convic- 
tion. "It's  perfectly  scandalous.  The  discipline  is  so 
very  lax.  Of  course  if  your  temperature  goes  up  above 
a  certain  point  you're  kept  in  bed.  But  there's  no  sys- 
tem. It's  an  individual  thing;  depends  on  your  doctor's 
personal  orders.  They  are,  I  suppose,  to  be  considered 
as  binding. —  There's  a  perpetual  shifting  about — 
you'll  see — in  the  dining  room;  people  coming  and  going 
all  the  time,  to  and  from  the  general  table.  Dramatic, 
you  know;  yes,  really,  it's  a  bit  dramatic.  You  never 
know  who  will  go  next.  They  disappear:  sometimes 
they  come  back,  sometimes  they  don't.  I've  seen  a  good 
few  of  'em  picked  off.  They  take  them  out  by  night, 
you  know,  when  nobody's  looking.  Everything  kept 
dark ;  so  discouraging  to  us  if  it  weren  't.  But  of  course 
we  know  all  right." 

Lawrance  recoiled:  it  was  abominable,  he  thought,  of 
this  fellow  to  talk  to  a  patient's  brother  in  that  way,  the 
first  time  he  got  hold  of  him.  He  determined  to  show  his 
disapproval  by  not  speaking.  Cyprian  Strange  walked 
on,  debonair  as  ever,  smiling  to  himself,  not  at  all  em- 
barrassed by  the  silence.  He  broke  it,  at  length,  quite 
casually. 

"You  won't  be  here  long,"  he  remarked.  "Your  wife 
will  be  cured  in  a  month  or  two.  I  can  always  tell  with 
a  new  case.  In  fact  I  know  as  much  about  consumption 
as  the  doctors.  Three  classes — Live:  Die:  Doubtful. 
And  the  doubtful  class  is  a  very  small  one.  The  only 
one  I've  been  wrong  about  in  the  last  year  is  that  Rus- 
sian. But  it  was  his  trying  to  kill  himself  that  saved 
him. —    How  is  your  wife  today?" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  291 

**My  sister  has  to  stay  in  bed, — for  to-day,  at  any 
rate." 

**I'm  sorry."  Cyprian  made  no  reference  to  his  mis- 
take, but  there  was  a  change  in  his  expression.  "But 
you  know  that  often  happens  the  first  day.  The  journey 
and  the  change — it  all  sends  the  temperature  up.  Your 
sister  will  be  all  right  tomorrow.  I'm  glad  the  snow's 
melting. ' ' 

Lawrance  had  been  waiting,  on  the  defensive,  for  the 
young  gallant  to  mention  Letty,  but  he  recognized  that 
to  this  mention  of  her  his  defensive  could  not  apply. 
He  was  now  well  on  his  slow  way  to  forgive  Strange 's 
cynical  flippancy:  it  did  not  seem  to  have  been  in  such 
bad  taste,  after  all. 

Cyprian  continued  to  be  conversational  as  they  walked 
down  and  up  the  slopes,  among  the  pines,  and  along  the 
little  mountain-paths,  or  stood  and  watched  the  "great 
blond  bully-boys,"  as  he  phrased  it,  "showing  off  as 
daredevils,  crossing  glaciers,"  and  a  party  of  mountain- 
climbers,  with  Alpenstocks  and  great  knapsacks,  stream- 
ing up  from  the  German  hotel.  He  loved  looking  about, 
he  informed  his  companion,  and  he  loved  walking:  he 
was  always  walking  too  much  and  bringing  on  haemor- 
rhages. * '  I  give  myself  five  years  more, ' '  he  said.  "  I  'm 
a  slow  case."  Lawrance  had  to  admit  that  he  was  di- 
verted, that  it  was  more  tolerable  being  with  Strange 
than  being  alone:  but  "Hang  it,"  he  thought  at  the 
same  time,  "that's  of  course  just  what  he  wants  me  to 
feel;  that's  what  he's  after."  He  had  given  the  fellow 
no  encouragement,  yet  he  was  "getting  in  with"  him 
splendidly.  Strange  had  the  strong  advantage,  which 
Lawrance  could  not  clearly  place,  of  being  totally  dis- 


292  A  CHASTE  MAN 

connected  with  Olga;  he  gave  Lawrance  the  full  view 
of  a  sphere  completely  foreign  to  the  girl;  he  provided 
precisely  the  refreshment  and  relaxation  of  which  Law- 
rance stood  in  need.  Letty's  brother  was  still,  however, 
mistrustful  to  a  certain  point,  and  irritated  now  and 
again  by  some  shades  of  Cyprian's  way  with  him,  a  way 
which  could  bear  remotely  the  implication,  friendly 
enough,  that  he  was  a  bit  stupid  and  a  bit  crude.  It 
was  irritating,  too,  that  smooth  deference  of  this  good- 
looking  fair  fellow 's  to  him,  as  to  a  distinctly  older  man, 
— his  calling  him  occasionally  "sir,"  for  example, — con- 
sidering that  there  could  not  be  more  than  a  year  or 
two 's  difference  in  their  ages.  Strange  was  treating  him 
as  a  chaperon;  he  was  being  galant  to  him — out  of 
habit,  perhaps, — as  if  Lawrance  were  a  rather  elderly 
lady. —  Especially  since  he  had  found  out  the  relation- 
ship to  Letty.  All  the  same  the  chap  was  diverting;  he 
took  Lawrance 's  mind  off,  he  passed  the  time.  He  had 
a  certain  impudence  that  was  really  rather  becoming, 
though  it  had  no  business  to  be. 

Lawrance  that  evening  remembered  things  Strange  had 
said,  with  an  amusement  that  his  ingrained  decency  a  lit- 
tle resented ;  things  about  women,  in  particular.  Strange 
had  the  greatest  contempt  for  women.  They  should 
either,  he  had  declared,  be  insulted  or  fooled,  if  you 
wanted  to  get  hold  of  them.  "And  it's  a  question  if 
they're  even  worth  the  trouble  of  doing  that.  We  get 
to  know  just  how  much  the  game  with  girls  is  worth, 
don't  we?  We  get  to  put  them  in  their  right  place. 
One  can  be  quite  happy  without  them,"  he  added,  in- 
creasing his  companion's  determination  to  be  watchful. 
Lawrance  observed,  and  checked  the  fact,  that  Letty  was 
not  mentioned  again. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  293 

Young  Strange  would  put  a  lavender-gloved  finger  to 
his  dainty  little  nose  at  Death :  but  casually,  without  any 
violence  of  gesture.  ''I  keep  the  old  grey  dog  at  a  dis- 
tance still,"  he  said.  "Some  of  my  friends  have  been 
bitten  lately,  though."  He  would  make  little  hits  at 
Mortality. 

Lawrance,  after  very  few  days,  was  drawn  into  a  sort 
of  intimacy  with  this  man,  whose  bland  yet  stinging 
aplomb  was  continually  striking  him  as  being  the  most 
immoral  thing  he  had  ever  come  across.  But  he  was  in 
no  mood  for  the  exercise  of  his  own  morality  against  the 
vicious  blitheness  of  this  new  comrade :  he  was  apathetic, 
willing  enough  to  drift.  He  did  indeed  pay  tribute  to 
his  conscience  by  arguing  that  it  was  an  excellent  thing 
that  he  should  be  often  with  young  Strange,  because 
that  narrowed  the  fellow 's  opportunities  with  Letty ;  but 
the  argument  was  listlessly  made.  Lawrance  felt  very 
much  older  and  milder,  and  dull  in  a  new  way,  dull  to 
himself,  as  he  had  never  been  before.  He  wondered 
sometimes  that  Cyprian  Strange  could  put  up  with  him : 
certainly  he  was  a  sorry  companion. 

Cyprian  invariably  paid  much  more  attention  to  Law- 
rance than  to  Letty  when  the  three  of  them  were  to- 
gether. At  Letty  he  would  smile  in  his  dazzling  sudden 
way;  he  was  of  course  consistently  galant  with  her,  but 
with  a  gallantry  of  discreet  poise  and  light  distant  wings. 
She  was  always  there,  it  seemed,  as  his  good  friend's 
sister:  Lawrance  was  never  "the  girl's  brother,"  not 
for  a  moment. 

Lady  Petistree  and  her  daughter  were,  as  might  have 
been  supposed,  already  known  to  Cyprian.  "I  culti- 
vate the  aristocracy,"  he  remarked.  "I  always  have.  I 
believe  in  a  certain  amount  of  honest  snobbery."    He 


294  A  CHASTE  MAN 

could  not  help  showing  that  he  was  rather  impressed, 
even  a  little  piqued,  by  the  Lawrances  having  a  letter 
of  introduction.  He  was  informative  about  the  two  la- 
dies. *'Lady  Blanche — "  he  told  Lawrance  in  the 
course  of  one  of  their  frequent  walks  together, — "her 
husband  killed  at  Mons,  I  expect  you  know.  Captain 
Voltalin.  She  went  into  a  consumption  afterwards. 
Too  faithful  to  his  memory,  that  was  it,"  he  added,  an- 
ticipating and  enjoying  with  keen  relish  the  twinge  of 
this  observation.  "She's  happier  now,  though,  and  I 
think  she'll  get  well.  A  tall  fair  girl,  rather  pretty. 
The  mother's  a  nonentity.  One  of  the  'many  too 
many.' —  They  never  call  on  any  one,  you  know.  And 
anyhow  the  newcomers  call  here, — Continental  fashion. 
I  called  on  them  myself, — just  walked  in  one  afternoon. 
That  was  all  right — why  not  ?    When  will  you  go  ? " 

But  Lawrance  would  not  call  on  Lady  Petistree  yet. 
Letty  was  in  a  fluctuating  state,  with  an  uncertain  tern- . 
perature.  Her  doctor  frequently  insisted  on  her  stay- 
ing in  bed,  and  on  those  days  she  was  nervous  and  ir- 
ritable. Lawrance  would  sit  on  her  balcony  and  listen 
to  her  complaints.  These  balconies,  with  their  chairs 
and  beds,  overlooked  one  another,  producing  thus  a  pe- 
culiarly melancholy  and  subduing  effect  on  him,  but  no 
effect  at  all,  apparently,  upon  her.  In  bed  she  was 
neither  melancholy  nor  subdued,  but  petulantly  restless, 
and  when  she  was  up,  the  released  vitality  of  her  spirit 
was  more  disconcerting  still.  She  made  friends  on  every 
side ;  she  talked  too  much ;  she  overdid  everything.  She 
worked  up  a  lively  interest  in  taking  lessons  in  French 
from  a  young  Hungarian  who  spoke  the  language  nearly 
as  badly  as  she  did.  He  told  her  he  was  a  naturalized 
Greek.    She  perplexed  herself  excitedly  over  the  cos- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  295 

tume  that  she  should  wear  at  a  coming  fancy  dress  ball 
that  was  to  be  held  in  the  sanitarium.  She  was  pop- 
ular and  made  several  conquests.  Lawrance  vowed  that 
he  would  not  countenance  even  the  small  diversion  of 
a  call  at  the  Villa  Kraus  till  she  had  really  settled 
down.  Meanwhile  Doctor  Meyer  was  fairly  encourag- 
ing. 

"It  is  the  mind,  my  dear  young  sir."  He  spoke 
through  his  beard,  with  a  thick  yet  lucid  emphasis,  in 
short  and  often  uncompleted  sentences,  with  a  timed  in- 
terval between  each.  **The  mind.  If  you  could  lay 
just  a  little  finger.  It  is  like  what  is  in  a  clock.  How 
do  you  call  it? —  A  pendulum? —  Ah,  yes!  If  you 
could  touch  the  pendulum."  He  held  out  a  forefinger, 
moved  it  horizontally  backwards  and  forwards,  then 
touched  it  with  the  forefinger  of  his  other  hand.  "Jus' 
like  that.  Or  the  tongue  of  a  bell.  You  stop  it.  You 
see?  The  young  lady  moves  too  much — inside.  The 
same,  too,  when  she  is  in  bed.  More,  perhaps.  You  un- 
derstand me,  my  dear  young  sir?  To  be  joos  a  leetle 
more — ^you  know — steady.  It  is  not  a  bad  case.  Not 
bad  at  all.  Not  now.  But  if  we  could  make  her  steadied. 
Settled.  If  she  could  be  interested  in  something  that  is 
quiet.  It  is  difficult,  I  know.  It  is  always  difficult.  It 
may  be  you  will  think  of  some  way.  For  this  you  would 
be  a  good  doctor;  you  would  be  a  better  doctor  than  I, 
my  dear  young  sir.  If  she  were  phlegmatic,  as  they  say 
you  English  are,  if  she  were  content.  "We  want  some- 
thing to  make  her  content.  She  might  be  cured — ^nearly 
— in  a  month — in  two  months." 

"How  silly  of  him!"  was  what  Letty  said  when  the 
substance  of  this  discourse  was  passed  on  to  her.  "Why, 
I  am  quiet.    I'm  as  quiet  as  I  can  be!    We  don't  do 


296  A  CHASTE  MAN 

anything,  and  I've  never  been  in  bed  so  much  in  my 
life." 

She  grew  restive  with  her  brother.  She  would  tell  him 
that  they  weren't  the  Siamese  twins,  and  now  and  again 
she  gave  him  the  slip.  He  did  not  reproach  her.  He 
stood  on  his  dignity,  and  was  helped  to  this  position 
by  his  inertia.  How  could  he  be  "after  her"  every  min- 
ute? He  did  what  he  could.  He  had  gone  so  far  as  to 
warn  her  about  young  Strange.  "Take  care:  remember 
you've  never  met  a  man  of  his  kind  before."  That  was 
sensible  enough,  but  she  had  only  laughed  at  him. 

Lawrance  was  occupied  to  some  extent  by  his  work 
for  the  Magazine.  Every  week  he  despatched  manu- 
script to  Mr.  Inge.  Then  he  wrote  regularly  to  his  wife 
and  to  his  mother,  regularly  and  mechanically.  He  did 
not  write  to  Olga.  He  thought  it  would  be  weak  to 
write.  He  had  said:  "Wait  for  me":  he  would  not 
repeat  it.  He  had  given  her  his  address  before  he  left 
Glasden  Road, — he  had  stayed  only  the  one  night, — and 
she  had  handed  the  paper  back  to  him,  with  no  betraying 
sign  of  any  emotion.  He  concluded,  or  determined  to 
conclude,  that  she  simply  meant  they  had  better  not 
correspond.  Muriel  wrote  to  him  in  a  reserved,  but 
friendly  tone:  she  always  inquired  after  Letty.  Mrs. 
Lawrance  wrote  exactly  the  same  kind  of  letters  that  she 
had  been  writing  her  son  ever  since  he  went  to  his  Pri- 
vate School:  she  often  did  not  refer  to  Letty  at  all,  ex- 
cept to  send  her  her  love. 

Lawrance 's  mood  of  apathy  did  not  hold  constant  oc- 
cupation. There  came  after  awhile  the  alternation  of 
a  mood  of  savage  desire,  of  passion  clawed  and  f  anged 
that  tore  at  him  as  at  an  anchorite  victim,  and  left  him 
in  the  throes  of  a  saddening  hunger.    Olga,  in  waking 


A  CHASTE  MAN  297 

thoughts  and  in  dreams,  crucified  his  flesh.  He  could 
understand  the  need  of  that  adjusting  remedy  for  pas- 
sionate anchorites, — self-torture.  When  under  this  mood 
or  its  after-effects,  he  let  his  wilful  sister  go  her  own  way 
entirely, — then  only  his  affection  for  her  seemed  to  waver 
and  fail, — he  applied  himself  much  more  arduously  than 
usual  to  his  work  for  the  Office,  and  he  avoided  Cyprian 
Strange. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AS  the  weeks  went,  Letty  improved  in  health. 
Doctor  Meyer  was  much  pleased  with  her. 
"She  has  sense,"  he  said.  ''She  has  will. 
She  is  cured.  She  shall  so  surely  be  cured  that  she  is 
cured  now.  You  understand  me?"  Quite  suddenly,  it 
seemed,  she  had  become  stable  and  calm, — docile.  The 
change  struck  Lawrance  as  unnatural;  he  suspected  it 
at  first,  but  it  held  ground.  She  had  come  to  be  per- 
fectly willing  to  rest,  to  do  what  she  was  told.  She 
would  read  Tauchnitz  novels,  or  sit  still  and  contented 
for  hours  together  on  her  balcony,  resting  a  tranquil 
gaze  upon  the  smally  successful  landscape,  upon  the 
mediocre  pines.  Yet  she  was  not  lethargic :  she  was  her- 
self, but  older  and  more  serene. 

Lawrance  acknowledged  the  working  virtue  of  the  air. 
He  wrote  happily  to  his  mother  and  his  wife,  and  he  was 
himself,  if  not  happy,  satisfied  and  justified.  Something 
at  least  had  been  done:  he  had  done  something.  Be- 
cause he  had,  as  he  thought,  saved  Letty,  his  affection 
for  her  returned  with  a  will, — an  affection  of  quickened 
pulse.  They  would  soon  go  back  to  England ;  he  would 
see  Olga  again ;  he  would  lose  neither  Olga  nor  Letty :  he 
would  have  been  right.  He  indulged  these  anticipations 
without  thought  of  the  barrier  that  his  wife  presented, 
though  the  barrier  was  as  real  as  ever.  Such  reflections 
as  he  entertained  about  his  child  that  was  to  be  bom 

298 


A  CHASTE  MAN  299 

were  always  in  rigid  separation,  and  he  could  not  make 
them  important.  When  he  tried  to  imagine  his  son  or 
his  daughter,  his  imagination  failed  him:  he  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  in  offspring,  and  still  more  difficult 
to  apply  offspring  to  Muriel  and  himself  together,  as 
equal  sharers,  Muriel  mentioned  her  health  now  and 
then ;  she  told  him  she  was  quite  well. 

They  had  been  several  times  to  the  Villa  Kraus,  and 
Cyprian  Strange  had  occasionally  come  with  them.  Law- 
rance  thought  him  a  shade  too  well-mannered  with  Lady 
Blanche.  Lady  Blanche,  if -she  had  not  been  dressed  with 
such  skilful  adaptation,  would  have  had  to  confess  to 
being  built  on  too  large  a  scale :  as  things  were,  she  was 
Juno-like  still  in  a  girlish  way,  and  her  mourning  set  off 
her  fairness  admirably.  Her  rather  too  full  face  was 
of  a  usual  pink  and  white.  There  was  intelligence  in  her 
blue  eyes,  but  an  intelligence  demurring  to  effort.  The 
eyes  hinted  a  possible  betrayal  of  cruelty,  cruelty  of  a 
patrician  kind,  in  which  she  herself  would  not  be  too 
much  involved.  She  did  not  interest  Lawrance,  neither 
did  Lawrance  interest  her,  but  there  was  evidently  a  rap- 
port between  her  and  Cyprian.  He  was  recognizably  a 
sort  of  squire  for  her,  in  his  place :  he  pleased  her,  but 
any  excitement  that  he  gave  was  well  under  the  poised 
young  lady's  control.  She  certainly  had  no  affection 
for  him :  it  was  obvious  that  affection  was  not  in  her  line. 
Lady  Petistree,  a  slim  straight  woman  with  abundant 
grey  hair  and  thin  grey  eyebrows,  questioningly  arched, 
did  not  favour  the  young  beau,  but  she  took  to  Lawrance, 
who  might,  if  he  had  been  so  minded,  have  reaped  a  re- 
ward for  his  sacrificial  exile  by  sitting  and  talking  for 
hours  with  this  elderly  countess.  His  being  married  and 
yet  not  middle-aged  seemed  to  give  him  a  standing  with. 


300  A  CHASTE  MAN 

her,  but  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  determine 
who  he  was  and  what  was  his  reason  for  existing.  She 
had  a  particularly  vague  mind. 

"And  what  relation  were  you  to  dear  Charley?"  she 
had  asked  suddenly  in  her  low  blurred  voice,  during  the 
first  visit :  and  a  little  later :  * '  Wasn  't  there  an  aunt  of 
yours, — one  of  the  Wrevilles?" — which  she  pronounced 
"Wrivvles." 

She  had  a  pleasing  childishness :  one  of  her  ungrounded 
convictions  was  that  St.  Franz  was  within  sound  of  the 
guns:  "We  can  hear  them  doing  it  from  here;  making 
war,  you  know."  When  Cyprian  informed  her  that 
Lawrance  went  in  for  writing :  ' '  Writing  ? ' '  she  queried, 
with  sweet  simplicity.  "Books?"  She  was  always  in 
the  same  tone. 

Both  ladies  were  "nice"  to  Letty,  though  the  daughter, 
before  Cyprian,  was  apt  to  play  her,  as  ' '  the  other  girl, '  * 
off  against  herself,  with  the  usual  dissimulation  of  aim. 
But  this  was  not  done  in  any  earnest:  it  was  a  matter 
of  simple  reflex  action,  and  put  nobody  out.  Lady 
Blanche,  being  as  her  brother-in-law  had  said,  bored  at 
St.  Franz,  was  inclined  to  be  more  amiable  than  anything 
else  to  these  strangers.  It  is  true  that  she  tried  amus- 
ing herself  by  saying  little  snubbing  things  to  Lawrance 
now  and  again:  he  remarked  once  that  there  had  been 
a  "rage"  a  few  winters  ago  for  a  certain  indoor  game: 
"Oh,  indeed,"  she  replied;  "I  was  spared  it."  He  did 
not  miss  the  implication  that  the  game  had  been  con- 
fined to  bourgeois  circles,  nor  did  Letty,  who  was  ruf- 
fled. Lawrance  was  not  ruflBed  at  all ;  the  constant  back- 
ground of  his  emotional  concerns  was  incompatible  with 
any  social  anxieties  or  social  lapses.  "Well,  I  won  a 
match-holder  at  that  game,  anyhow,"  he  had  rejoined 


A  CHASTE  MAN  801 

calmly,  and  whsn  Lady  Blanche  neatly  shot  out  to  trip 
him  up  with:  "And  what  is  a  match-holder?"  he  kept 
his  balance  perfectly  in  the  grave  reply:  "A  receptacle 
for  holding  matches."  She  had  the  satisfaction  of  no- 
ticing that  he  blushed  a  moment  later:  an  illegitimate 
satisfaction,  because  the  blush  came  from  a  sudden  an- 
ticipation of  Lady  Petistree  's  writing  to  Lord  Burpham, 
or  meeting  him  later,  and  revealing  that  Olga  and  Letty 
were  two  quite  different  people. 

The  two  patrician  widows  did  not  embarrass  Lawrance, 
but  they  more  and  more  impressed  him  as  irrelevant. 
Now  if  only  Muriel  could  have  had  his  chance  with  them ! 
He  had  refrained  from  even  mentioning  the  ladies  in  his 
letters  to  her ;  he  knew  she  would  be  pained  and  envious. 
If  only  she —  What  a  pity !  But  what  had  Lady  Petis- 
tree and  Lady  Blanche  Voltalin  to  do  with  him?  he 
thought:  why  was  he  sitting  there  with  them  at  this 
Villa  Kraus?  For  the  first  time  he  was  confronted  by 
the  curious  fact  that  Life  is  forever  bringing  us  into 
relations  with  people  who  are  foreign.  Why  do  we  all 
submit  ?  he  thought :  why  do  we  not  put  our  hands  over 
our  eyes  and  turn  away?  But  instead,  our  submission 
goes  further  still:  we  consent  to  lose  those  whom  we 
like  and  those  whom  we  love.  It  was  quite  the  way  of 
things  that  he  should  be  in  the  Villa  Kraus  and  not  in 
the  house  in  the  Glasden  Road.  Thousands  of  others — 
millions — shared  his  destiny. 

He  envied  Cyprian  Strange.  Cyprian  could  evidently 
turn  everything  to  his  purpose.  He  enjoyed  himself  at 
the  sanitarium ;  he  enjoyed  himself  with  the  two  ladies. 
Their  drawing-room  had  drama  for  him:  he  played  his 
part,  with  interest  in  himself  and  in  others, — no  matter 
what  others,  and  no  matter  where  he  might  be.    He 


302  A  CHASTE  MAN 

would  discourse  at  great  length  upon  Lady  Blanche  and 
Lady  Petistree,  with  many  epithets  for  each  of  them 
and  many  flings  of  phrase :  he  would  discourse  upon  the 
inmates  of  the  sanitarium, — Gustav  de  Letay,  the  Hun- 
garian who  said  he  was  a  naturalized  Greek, — "that  pre- 
dacious little  devil ' ' :  Kaymond  Vignolles,  who  had  been 
an  actor  at  the  Comedie  Frangaise  and  whose  wife  was 
"touchingly  devoted,  I  hear,  to  the  care  of  his  larynx": 
Heinrich  Ehrmann,  the  rich  German  Jew,  always  gut- 
turally  declaring  that  "My  only  vish,  shentlemen  and 
ladies,  is  to  be  in  the  background";  "And  he  will  be," 
said  Cyprian  with  a  leer.  "Wait  a  month,  and  he'll  be 
well  in  the  background,  and  a  good  thing  too!"  Then 
there  was  Kamalinga  Lai,  of  Madras,  "a  cynical  dog,  a 
philosophic  dog, ' '  who  had  given  Lawrance  pause  by  de- 
claring once  that  if  the  verdict  of  history  on  the  war 
were  published  now  in  any  belligerent  country,  the  au- 
thor would  at  once  be  put  in  prison  and  probably  shot. 
He  was  naive,  too,  this  Indian,  in  curious  contrast, — 
naively  vain,  spending  much  pains  on  his  moustache, 
and  more  than  once  announcing  the  fact  of  his  distin- 
guished birth:  "Though  I  do  not  at  all  like  to  say  it, 
I  have  the  blood  of  kings  in  my  veins. ' '  Lawrance  liked 
him,  and  jadmired  his  intellect  which  was  considerable, 
and  formidably  weighted  by  study.  This  weight  rather 
irritated  Cyprian,  but  Ramalinga's  personal  foibles 
pleased  him  hugely.  "These  Indians,  though, — ^they 
should  be  kept  well  under. ' ' 

All  these  people  flicked  Cyprian's  observation  in  curi- 
osity, gave  him  material  on  which  he  seized  with  deft 
slim  fingers.  "And  think!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  sit- 
uation for  us  all — English  and  Germans  and  Austrians 
and  French  and  the  rest — here  in  this  hole  scooped  out 


A  CHASTE  MAN  303 

for  us  in  the  belly  of  Europe !  War  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west !  This  is  about  the  only  place  where  Eng- 
lish and  Germans  are  allowed  to  make  love  to  one  an- 
other; doesn't  that  strike  you  as  dramatic?  By  the 
Lord,  there 's  some  drama  in  that,  some  lustre ;  what  do 
you  think !  You  've  no  idea  how  the  war  has  cheered  us 
all  up.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  it  has  brightened  our  lot, — our 
trivial  round,  our  common  task.  We  all  of  us  think: 
'Well,  anyhow,  we've  got  as  good  a  chance  as  the  man 
in  the  trenches.'  Well,  I  suppose  the  press-gangs  will 
soon  be  getting  to  work  in  earnest  in  England  ? ' ' 

Lawrance  yielded  to  him  more  and  more,  and  even 
came  to  share  some  of  his  diversion  in  the  general  spec- 
tacle; though  he  could  not  make  that  diversion  vivid. 
He  often  wondered  if  he  really  liked  this  debonair  curly- 
haired  young  blade  or  really  disliked  him,  and  in  the 
end  he  concluded  that  he  both  liked  and  disliked.  In 
spite  of  his  deepset  nerve  of  Puritanism,  Lawrance  felt 
that  it  was  a  good  thing  that  Cyprian  should  be  happy 
in  his  particular  way:  sometimes  his  equally  deepset 
nerve  of  passion  would  vibratingly  carry  him  on  to  the 
rebellious  conviction  that  anything  could  be  pardoned 
to  a  man  who  made  much  of  life.  Cyprian's  careless 
defiance  of  the  code  that  Lawrance  himself  made  so 
much  of  set  up  assailing  doubts.  "There's  nothing  we 
can't  do,  really,"  the  pretty  anarchist  had  flung  off  one 
day.  '  *  It  all  depends  on  how  you  do  it.  Style  is  every- 
thing. They'd  stand  a  good  deal  from  me,"  he  added, 
with  a  conceit  so  lightly  weighted  that  the  other  could 
not  resent  it.  "But  of  course  there's  nothing  in  their 
morality,  really, — the  sly  dogs !  It 's  partly  a  ritual  and 
partly  a  protection." 

Lawrance  could  never  have  been  seduced  by  the  im- 


304  A  CHASTE  MAN 

moralities  of  old  Mr.  Flynn,  by  those  spleenful  anarchies 
of  his,  half-jovially  defiant,  always  ungaugedly  reaching 
out  for  a  philosophic  dress:  but  this  idle  young  fellow, 
this  "Indifferent,"  with  his  good  temper  and  his  good 
looks,  was  a  far  more  formidable  disintegrating  force. 

"There's  no  doubt,"  he  said  to  himself  one  day,  as 
Cyprian  tripped  by  his  side,  after  a  visit  they  had  made 
together  to  the  Villa  Kraus,  "there's  no  doubt  you  do 
get  a  great  deal  out  of  it  all." 

"Oh,  my  name  is  Lady  Blanche," — the  golden  youth 
was  singing  and  making  little  grimaces — "my  name  is 
Lady  Blanche,  damn  your  eyes ! ' '  Lawrance  recognized 
the  variation  of  a  ribald  song  once  current  at  Oxford. 
"Oh,  you  can  patronize,  can't  you,  in  your  way, — you 
can  put  us  in  our  right  places — ve-ry  well!  She's  a 
beauty,  she 's  a  fine  upstanding  mare ;  we  know  her  little 
tricks,  don't  we?  the  whole  bloody  bag  of  'em!  Well, 
m'lady,  I  guess  you're  one  of  those  who  were  bom  to  lie 
between  lawful  sheets." 

Shortly  after  Letty's  turn  for  the  better  Cyprian  had 
grown  much  more  intimately  freespoken  witli  Lawrance. 
*  *  Do  tell  me  about  your  amours, ' '  he  would  demand,  and 
when  Lawrance  did  not  respond,  he  would  give  full  and 
varied  information  about  some  of  his  own.  "We  con- 
sumptives are  always  reckless,  you  know,"  he  said, 
"reckless  and  amorous." 

Cyprian's  principal  topics  in  these  later  days  were 
Desire  and  Death,  with  occasional  excursions  to  Moral- 
ity. He  insisted  that  Morality  didn't  "cut  much  ice, 
really, — ^not  anywhere,  you  see,  not  really."  Once  he 
had  elaborated:  "It's  expediency  rules  the  roost,  and 
the  line  of  least  resistance.  Men  are  faithful  to  their 
wives  out  of  sheer  inertia,  or  because  they're  short  of 


A  CHASTE  MAN  305 

money.  We  used  to  think  when  we  were  boys  that  Life 
was  going  to  be  a  terrific  struggle  between  the  right  and 
the  wrong, — all  sorts  of  sweet  temptations.  I  tell  you 
you  have  to  make  your  temptations,  in  this  world,  and 
it's  the  hardest  thing  to  do  really  successfully." 

"You're  wrong!"  Lawrance  had  broken  in,  with  a 
bitterness  and  a  violence  that  startled  the  other. 

"Ah, — well!"  Cyprian  paused  and  laughed.  "Of 
course  if  you  run  away,  all  sorts  of  things  may  hap- 
pen.—  Well,  I  may  be  wrong,  a  little  wrong.  There 
might  be  temptations  for  some  people  in  this  place. 
What  a  place!  More  like  a  bawdy-house  than  a  sani- 
tarium, isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  that's  absurd!  You  like  saying  sensational 
things,  you  can't  believe  them.  There  may  be  two  or 
three — three  or  four,  perhaps — but  to  say  that — " 

"Oh,  well,  it's  not  very  important!  After  all,  desire 
isn't  everything.  I've  often  been  quite  happy  without 
it. ' '  He  spoke  defiantly,  as  though  expecting  contradic- 
tion: then  changed  his  tone.  "Paddling  my  feet  in 
brooks,  watching  the  tiny  fountains  spout  up  between 
my  toes.  I've  often  thought  that  simple  laziness  was 
quite  enough  to  ask  of  Life.  I  think  so  now.  Quite 
enough.  I  must  say,  though,  I  should  rather  like  to  be 
what  they  call  *a  man  of  letters.'  One  like  Anatole 
France.    But  I  never  write  anything  but  my  diary. ' ' 

Lawrance,  after  this,  used  to  wonder  if  Cyprian  could 
have  used  his  faculty  for  observation  in  writing.  He 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  could  not  have,  that  he 
was  an  egoist  in  the  wrong  way  for  that,  that  he  had 
none  of  the  requisite  objectivity.  Lawrance  himself  ob- 
served much  more  objectively,  though  not  nearly  so 
keenly  and  with  much  less  personal  satisfaction.    Cy« 


306  A  CHASTE  MAN 

prian  seemed  to  smear  with  himself  everything  he 
touched,  to  smear  it  thickly  and  gluttonously,  with  the 
sweet  rich  butter  of  his  personality. 

As  Letty's  health  grew  more  and  more  stable,  Cy- 
prian's more  and  more  wavered.  He  began  not  to  be 
able  to  walk  far,  was  indignant  at  his  inability,  tried  to 
walk,  had  to  give  it  up.  One  day  he  had  a  bad  haemor- 
rhage, and  was  kept  in  bed,  for  the  first  time  for  months. 
Lawrance  went  to  see  him,  and  found  him  much  weak- 
ened, but  determined  to  talk. 

"I  know  I  shan't  recover,"  he  said.  "I  know  too 
much  about  this  damned  disease.  It  doesn  't  matter  what 
I  do  now.  Consumptives  always  think  they're  going  to 
get  better :  I  'm  not  fooled  that  way.  Well,  when  we  die, 
we're  gone." 

Lawrance  felt  that  he  was  set  for  a  disquisition  about 
Death,  and  tried  to  stop  him.  **  Nonsense;  you 
mustn't — " 

"Of  course  we're  gone. —  I  say,  you  might  go  to  that 
bottom  drawer  there  and  get  out  a  bottle  of  brandy.  I 
want  to  drink  it  with  my  coffee.  I  persuaded  Lisl  to 
get  me  coffee.  You  might  as  well,"  he  added  as  Law- 
rance hesitated.  **It's  for  a  dying  man. —  'We  are 
dying  day  by  day,*  as  that  quizzical  hymn  has  it,  but 
some  of  us  not  quite  so  soon,  Mr.  Lawrance,  not  quite  so 
soon ! —  I  drink  it  very  seldom —  Thank  you. ' '  Law- 
rance recognized  the  brandy  as  a  particularly  fine  vin- 
tage of  a  famous  French  firm.  "There's  a  liqueur 
glass  wrapped  up  in  tissue  paper.  I  always  wash  it  my- 
self. Under  the  shirts.  You  don't  mind  pouring  it  out 
for  me,  do  you  ? — We  're  gone,  yes.  Think  of  that  poor 
little  English  governess  who  died  last  week — thousands 


A  CHASTE  MAN.  307 

like  her — ^you  can't  imagine  her  existing  now,  can  you? 
And  it's  the  same  with  all  of  us."  He  took  three  tiny 
relishing  sips  of  the  brandy,  then  poured  a  very  little, 
very  carefully,  into  his  coffee.  "You've  only  to  look  at 
a  corpse  to  know  it's  all  over.  Some  sooner,  some  later. 
What  a  chance  it  all  is !  I  shall  be  quit  of  these  malicious 
mountains,  though,  damn  'em!  Old  Miiller  told  me  a 
week  ago  that  I  was  killing  myself.  Of  course  he  knew 
why.  Yet  I  wanted  to  live:  I  admit  I  wanted  to  live. 
Well,  my  only  amusement  to-day  has  been  to  have  the 
Continental  Daily  Mail  read  to  me." 

"Look  here,  isn't  there  something  I  could  read  to  you 
now?" 

"No."  Cyprian  took  a  dainty  mouthful  of  his  sea- 
soned coffee.  "I  want  to  talk.  Not  for  long;  I  can't. 
Miiller  will  be  round  soon  enough. —  I  take  a  special 
interest  in  the  Casualty  Lists,  you  know.  I  scan  them 
with  a  certain  avidity.  I'm  worse  off  than  those  am- 
munition-bearers, or  whatever  they  call  them,  now, 
though.  I  don't  think  I've  one  chance  in  ten —  Well, 
I've  managed  to  live  longer  than  some  of  my  friends — 
not  much  consolation,  considering  that  I  want  to  live  for- 
ever. One  of  them  was  killed  only  the  other  day; 
Raynes,  his  name  was."  He  sipped  again,  then  poured 
more  brandy.  *  *  Edward  Raynes. —  We  weren  't  friends 
for  long,  though.  He  had  a  certain  humour,  he  could 
laugh;  but  he  was  really  commonplace.  I  found  him 
out.  A  discreet  philistine,  and  a  bit  of  a  bounder.  Shot 
clean  through  the  head,  they  tell  me,  somewhere  near 
Lille." 

"Like  Rosy  Mayhew's  father,"  thought  Lawrance,  as 
Cyprian  took  another  little  mouthful.    The  fair  youth 


308  A  CHASTE  MAN 

now  emptied  the  glass  deliberately  into  his  cup,  on  timed 
completion  of  his  graded  preparation  for  the  draught  of 
crowning  fervour, 

"Oh,  damn,  there's  Miiller.  I  say,  this  is  what  I 
wanted  to  tell  you.  I've  got  a  Diary,  there  are  some 
good  things  in  it,  I  know  there  are.  Well,  I've  left  di- 
rections that  you're  to  have  it  at  my  death."  He  fin- 
ished his  cup  with  one  rich  gulp.  "But  they  may  for- 
get. See  that  you  get  it,  please  do.  I  keep  it  in  that 
right-hand  top  drawer,  at  the  bottom.  You'll  remem- 
ber, won't  you? —  Put  the  glass  back  in  its  tissue 
paper,  please. —  I  really  believe  some  of  it  might  be 
worth  publishing;  I  should  like  that,  I  like  my  little 
diary. —    You  see — "    He  stopped,  exhausted. 

**0f  course  I  will,"  Lawrance  gave  rapid  assurance. 
He  heard  Doctor  Miiller 's  voice  outside  the  door.  "Of 
course.    You  can  count  on  me." 

He  was  strongly  moved  by  the  haggardness  of  Cy- 
prian's admirably  handsome  young  face,  with  its  crisp 
gold  curls,  still  so  carefully — so  pathetically — arranged. 

"You'll  do  what  you  can,  won't  you,  eh?  I  thought, 
you  see,  being  on  a  paper  and  all  that —  In  with  some 
publishers,  I  suppose?" 

"I'll  do  what  I  can.  I  promise  you."  Lawrance  re- 
sisted the  impulse  to  add  the  conventional:  "But  of 
course  you're  going  to  get  better."  No,  one  couldn't 
say  that  kind  of  thing  to  Cyprian  Strange. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  instead,  as  Doctor  Miiller  en- 
tered. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LAWRANCE  was  wakened  the  next  morning  by 
the  delivery  of  a  telegram.  It  was  from  his 
father-in-law,  and  imperatively  urged  him  to 
come  back  at  once.  "Muriel's  condition  dangerous." 
The  young  man  was  numbed  at  first  by  the  shock  of  this 
utter  unexpectedness,  the  time  for  the  baby  being  still 
distant  by  two  or  three  months :  then  he  was  horrified  by 
a  leaping  in  him  of  hope  for  Muriel's  death.  He  cried 
out  in  repulsion  from  himself,  he  could  not  have  believed 
that  he  was  so  evil.  Thenceforward  he  tried  not  to 
think  of  the  event,  for  fear  of  being  taken  again  from 
so  horrid  an  ambush.  He  sent  a  telegram  in  reply  that 
he  was  coming  as  soon  as  possible,  and  he  had  dressed 
and  finished  packing  his  valise  before  Letty  was  stirring, 
Letty — after  her  "Poor  Magsie!" — wanted  to  go  with 
him.  She  was  well  now,  she  said ;  she  did  not  at  all  care 
to  be  at  St.  Franz  by  herself.  It  would  be  absurd  for 
him  to  come  back  for  her,  yet,  again,  it  would  not  do  for 
her  to  travel  alone.  She  was  particularly  anxious  to  go 
then:  she  used  one  argument  after  another,  she  seemed 
set  for  the  immediate  journey.  Her  brother  found  her 
entirely  unreasonable.  How  could  she  go  then?  There 
was  the  packing,  there  were  endless  things  to  be  done, — 
the  passports,  and  so  on, — he  could  hardly  do  everything 
in  time  for  himself.  Besides,  she  was  not  absolutely  re- 
covered, not  at  all;  she  would  have  a  relapse.  How 
could  she  think  of  going  straight  back,  there  and  then, 

309 


310  A  CHASTE  MAN 

with  him,  at  top  speed?  Everything  would  be  undone. 
He  could  not  in  the  least  understand  why  she  should 
cling  so  obstinately  to  so  absurd  an  idea. 

In  one  of  the  intervals  of  his  hurryings  backwards 
and  forwards  between  the  Sanitarium  and  the  British 
and  French  Consulates  he  called  at  the  Villa  Kraus  and 
sought  alliance  with  the  two  ladies.  Lady  Blanche,  for- 
tunately, decided  that  she  would  be  more  interested  than 
not  in  lending  her  co-operation.  "Why,  of  course  we'll 
look  after  your  sister,"  she  said  in  her  clear  authori- 
tative voice.  And:  "Why,  of  course,"  Lady  Petis- 
tree  echoed  with  her  vague  air.  Lady  Blanche  went 
further :  she  herself  was  practically  cured,  they  were  go- 
ing home  in  a  few  weeks — a  month,  perhaps — and  if  Miss 
Lawrance  would  come  with  them — ? 

Miss  Lawrance 's  brother  was  most  grateful.  He  did 
not  at  all  want  to  return  to  St.  Franz:  the  idea  of  re- 
turning to  this  dirty-yellow  place  was  in  fact  intolerable ; 
equally  intolerable,  whatever  might  happen.  He  could 
not  help  wondering,  though,  if  by  any  untoward  chance 
they  might  meet  with  Lord  Burpham  in  London.  He 
imagined  all  three  of  them  in  Lord  Burpham 's  house  in 
Queen  Street,  having  tea  with  him.    What  then  ? 

Letty  yielded,  but  in  yielding  she  surprised  her  brother 
by  an  outburst  of  tears.  He  could  not  at  all  under- 
stand her.    These  fixed  ideas  women  sometimes  got ! 

Cyprian  Strange  had  been  completely  dislodged  from 
his  mind :  but  at  the  last  moment  Lawrance  remembered 
him,  and  sent  to  make  inquiries  and  to  let  him  know  that 
he  was  called  suddenly  to  England  by  the  illness  of  his 
wife.  A  brief  message  came  back  from  Doctor  Miiller 
that  Mr.  Strange 's  condition  was  precarious.  Lawrance, 
fitting  down  at  his  table  in  hat  and  waterproof,  wrote  at 


A  CHASTE  MAN  311 

the  beck  of  his  wakeful  conscience  a  hurried  note  to  the 
doctor,  giving  him  the  address  of  the  Office,  and  asking 
that  Mr.  Strange 's  book,  "about  which  he  will  have  given 
directions,"  should  be  sent,  by  registered  post,  to  him 
there,  "if  necessary.'* 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BY  the  time  Lawrance  reached  the  Essex  Rectory, 
after  a  delayed  journey,  Muriel  was  out  of  dan- 
ger from  the  effects  of  the  miscarriage.  She 
was  still  in  bed,  she  looked  pale  and  drawn,  and  much 
older.  Her  looks  had  suffered  severely,  her  mouth  had 
new  lines.  Lawrance  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  notice 
this.  His  feelings  did  not,  however,  give  his  conscience 
much  trouble:  not  being  uxorious,  he  was  genuinely 
more  sorry  for  her  than  for  himself.  It  was  feared  that 
she  might  be  permanently  an  invalid. 

She  was  gracious  to  him,  gracious  and  forgiving:  she 
behaved  very  well.  But  he  knew  that  she  had  not,  as  a 
fact,  forgiven:  he  did  not  speculate  as  to  whether  she 
ever  would.  She  talked  about  ordinary  things,  very 
little  of  herself.  She  was  a  good  patient.  Once  she 
said:  **I  have  been  rather  lonely,"  but  not  in  a  tone 
that  implied  "lonely  without  you."  She  said  she  felt 
rather  "weird."  He  used  all  his  energy  upon  being 
tender  and  considerate  to  her.  Mr.  Knight  approved  of 
him. 

The  clergyman  had  changed;  he  seemed  thinner,  he 
was  less  self-assured.  Lawrance  had  expected  that  he 
would  speak  to  him  of  the  calamity  from  his  private  pul- 
pit, drawing  lessons,  in  his  way.  But  he  barely  alluded 
to  what  had  happened:  "It  was  terrible,  Oliver,"  was 
all  he  said.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  struck  his 
son-in-law  as  being  sincerely  moved,  this  man  who  had  so 

312 


A  CHASTE  MAN  313 

seldom  told  the  truth,  so  seldom  even  thought  it.  He 
was  like  a  child  at  that  moment.  He  did  not  add: 
"Thy  Will  be  done!"  or  *'We  must  have  faith  that  it  is 
for  the  best."  Lawrance  waited  for  such  words,  feel- 
ing most  strongly  that  he  could  not  echo  them,  rebelling, 
for  all  that  he  was  so  much  Christian,  against  the  slavish 
trick  of  them,  against  their  cowardly  attempt  to  drug 
the  soul  of  a  tragic  moment.  "It  is  for  the  worst,"  he 
would  have  said,  rather :  ' '  and  we  take  it  for  the  worst. ' ' 
But  Mr.  Knight  said  nothing,  either  way.  He  had  been 
there. 

Lawrance  had  written  to  Olga,  saying  simply  that  he 
was  back  in  England  and  would  be  in  London  soon, 
when  he  would  see  her.  He  had  given  no  address.  It 
was,  of  course,  reasonable  enough  that  he  should  return 
to  his  work  at  the  Office,  after  a  decent  interval.  He  de- 
cided to  stay  at  one  of  the  little  Sefton  Hotels  till  he 
could  settle  on  temporary  lodgings  in  Kensington 
— Church  Walk  or  the  neighbourhood.  Their  servants 
were  at  Mr.  Knight's  rectory,  according  to  the  plan; 
except  Mary,  who  had  kept  her  word  and  left.  It  was 
arranged  that  he  should  come  down  to  see  Muriel  on 
Saturdays,  staying  the  night,  until  she  was  enough  re- 
covered to  travel  up  and  open  the  Chiswick  house  again. 
"Well,"  he  said  disingenuously,  under  the  resisted 
stress  of  his  passionate  anticipation  of  Glasden  Road, 
"well,  I  suppose  old  Inge  will  be  keen  on  my  getting 
back." 

He  left  the  Rectory  on  the  afternoon  of  the  Sunday 
week  following  his  arrival.  Every  day  there,  after  the 
first,  had  been  the  same:  nothing  had  come  of  any  of 
them.  He  had  sat  by  Muriel 's  bed,  talking  of  Letty  and 
her  restored  health,  describing  St.  Franz — not  at  all  as 


314  A  CHASTE  MAN 

he  really  felt  about  it — and  the  journeys;  listening  to 
the  local  news  and  the  news  of  his  brother-in-law  Gerald, 
who  had  been  slightly  wounded,  but  was  now  back  in 
France.  No  period  in  Lawrance's  life  had  ever  passed 
so  slowly. 

At  Liverpool  Street  he  left  his  luggage  in  the  Cloak 
Koom,  and  went  on  at  once  to  Glasden  Road.  Now  that 
he  was  out  of  the  railway  train  his  expectations  and 
fears  were  less  painfully  acute.  The  pendant  hand  of 
Time  seemed  suddenly  to  be  clenched  for  a  swift  for- 
ward sweep  to  no  matter  what  unknown  quarter ;  it  was 
enough  that  the  sweep  was  to  be  swift :  this  was  so  much 
everything  that  Lawrance  was  absorbed  in  the  fact,  and 
he  watched,  fascinated.  "Change  at  Tottenham  Court 
Road"  he  had  to  repeat  to  himself.  "Change  at  Totten- 
ham Court  Road."  However,  when  he  was  actually 
walking  within  a  hundred  yards  or  so  of  the  house  itself, 
he  could  not  hold  back  the  once  more  recurring :  "  I  do 
wish  I  had  had  some  news  of  them. "  "  How  stupid ! "  he 
told  himself  at  once.  "You'll  have  it  soon  enough  now. 
It'll  be  all  the  more  interesting."  Then  his  senses  with- 
drew, dulled. 

Doris  opened  the  door,  started  and  cried  out :  "Why, 
it's  Mr.  Lawrance!"  "Well,  you  are  a  stranger!" 
came  as  an  inevitable  addition. 

She  was  looking  just  as  Lawrance  remembered  her 
on  the  night  when  he  had  taken  Olga  to  the  theatre; 
she  seemed  perfectly  well,  quite  as  happy  as  she  had  ever 
been:  and  she  was  better  dressed  than  usual.  Law- 
rance congratulated  her  gravely  on  her  good  looks  and 
good  health. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said  saucily,  "I  s'pose  I  am  my  'old 
bright  self  again,  Hoppy.' —    Mr.  Deavitt  still  comes 


A  CHASTE  MAN  315 

round,"  she  went  on  casually.  "He's  in  khaki  now. 
He's  gone  to  the  Base — at  Rouen,  you  know. —  Won't 
you  come  inside,  Mr.  Lawrance?"  She  took  on  her 
funny  little  formal  tone. 

*'Yes,"  said  Lawrance  as  he  went  in,  "I've  heard 
from  him  once  or  twice." 

He  remembered  that  Deavitt  in  his  last  letter  had 
asked  after  "Mordie  Voltalin."  "No  doubt,"  he  re- 
flected, "Deavitt  would  always  be  quite  happy."  Part 
of  his  job,  he  had  written,  was  to  exchange  paper  money 
found  on  the  killed,  spoilt  by  shot  and  blood.  "I'm  on 
the  go  all  the  time  between  9  &  6." 

"He  seemed  in  very  good  spirits,"  Lawrance  said 
aloud. 

"He's  dead  nuts  on  Marjorie!    He  spoils  the  kid." 

"Is  Marjorie  here?" 

' '  No,  she 's  gone  to  the  sea  with  a  party  of  kiddies  for 
the  week-end." 

They  were  in  the  empty  dining  room.  Lawrance 's 
mind  kept  its  dreamy  drift  to  Crockerton  Deavitt  and 
his  letter.  Deavitt  had  said  that  his  "gags"  had  worked 
their  way  to  the  trenches,  where  they  went  down  splen- 
didly. Lawrance  recalled,  with  a  swimming  sense  of  dis- 
tance, some  examples  he  had  given:  "No  shells  on  tap 
this  afternoon."  "A  good  shot  is  a  dairy-fed  one,  with 
ball  bearings  throughout."  Suddenly  he  noticed  that 
Doris  was  wearing  the  bracelet  he  had  given  to  Olga. 

"Shall  I  light  the  gas,  Mr.  Lawrance?  Light  enough 
without  it,  though,  isn't  it?"  The  girl  spoke  quickly, 
she  seemed  embarrassedly  eager.  "You'll  take  a  chair, 
won't  you? —  Did  you  know  I've  got  an  awfully  good 
job;  I'm  in  the  chorus  at  the  'Variety.'  I  have  some 
lines.    Dora  Howard,   my  stage-name  is.    Lucky  you 


316  A  CHASTE  MAN 

came  on  Sunday,  or  I  shouldn  't  have  been  in.  Have  you 
seen  the  new  Revue  at  the  'Traf.'?  They  tell  me  it's 
simply  topping!"  She  pitched  her  voice  high.  "Oh, 
but  you've  been  abroad,  haven't  you? —  Perhaps  I'd 
better  light  the  gas,  after  all."  She  went  to  pull  down 
the  blinds.  "When  did  you  come  back?  I  was  begin- 
ning to  think  you  were  going  to  stay  away  all  the  sum- 
mer— and  you  have,  almost,  haven't  you?" 

"But  didn't  Olga  get  my  letter?" 

' '  Your  letter  ?    I  didn 't  know—" 

She  looked  distressed  and  ill  at  ease.  Lawrance  stared 
at  her.  He  was  no  longer  dulled  and  dreamy,  but  per- 
turbed, sure  that  something  was  dreadfully  wrong. 

"Where  is  Olga?"  he  demanded.  "Where  is  she?" 
His  heart-beats  strangled  him. 

"Oh —  Well — ^well,  you  see,  Mr.  Lawrance,  she  isn't 
here  just  now.    She 's — ' ' 

"  Do  be  quick,  Doris,  you  might  tell  me  where  she  is. ' ' 

"Oh,  here's  Father!"     The  girl  jumped  up,  relieved. 

"Where's  Olga?"  Lawrance  asked  of  Mr.  Flynn :  then 
shook  hands  with  his  old  friend,  who  looked  away  from 
him,  just  as  he  had  at  their  last  leavetaking.  His  clasp 
was  limp. 

"Where's  Olga?"  Lawrance  repeated. 

"Gone  to  Canada."  The  old  man  turned  away,  and 
walked  over  with  deliberation  to  the  empty  fireplace. 

"There!  I  didn't  want  to  tell  him!"  Doris's  voice 
trembled.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth,  and  hurried 
from  the  room.    Lawrance  did  not  notice  her. 

"Alone?  Has  she  gone  alone?"  He  raised  his  voice, 
as  though  old  Flynn  were  deaf. 

"She  went  with  Patsey."  Flynn  shuffled  to  the  side- 
board and  poured  himself  out  a  drink  of  whiskey. 


A  CHASTE  MAN  317 

"Why  on  earth—?" 

**I  told  you."  The  old  man  gave  him  a  sideways 
glance,  almost  malicious.  ''I  was  right — quite  right. 
Figs  and  thistles,  grapes  and  thorns — remember  ?  She  'd 
have  been  happier  with  you.  I  know  Olga."  He  sat 
down,  holding  his  glass  carefully  between  his  hands. 
"She's  married,  too." 

Lawrance  remained  standing  in  the  same  spot. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  meaning  in  all  this.  Where  was 
there  a  gauge?  He  wanted  a  gauge.  He  was  dissoci- 
ated, his  senses  seemed  thinly  fluctuant.  He  was  sure 
that  his  voice  could  not  reach  the  Mariner,  who  was  no 
longer  the  Mariner,  but  somebody  of  quite  a  different 
sort.  The  curious  thing  was  that  that  picture  of  "Bos- 
ton Harbor,  1876,"  was  just  the  same. 

' '  Why  not  ? ' '  The  young  man  heard  the  voice  from  a 
distance,  but  very  clearly.  "Much  better,  really.  She 
didn  't  lose  much  time.  Married  a  fellow  who  was  on  the 
boat  going  out  with  them,  a  Scotchman — married  almost 
as  soon  as  they  landed.  Patsey  seems  to  think  he's  a 
good  fellow.  Man  about  thirty.  A  farmer.  Patsey 's 
in  service.  She 's  a  cook.  You  'd  think  she  might  as  well 
have  cooked  for  Olga  and  her  husband — they  haven't 
any  servant,  of  course — ^but  she  got  a  chance  of  good 
wages.  She  sent  me  some  money  last  week.  She 
oughtn't  to — she's  too  good,  she's — "  His  voice  broke 
and  startled  Lawrance  into  a  sense  of  the  old  man's 
reality  as  himself. 

"It  must  be  pretty  bad  for  you." 

"Well.  She  had  to  go.  It  seems  a  long  time  now: 
soon  after  you  went  to  Switzerland — almost  at  once. 
And  Olga  wanted  to  go,  too.  Of  course  Ewing  hadn't 
given  himself  up  then." 


318  A  CHASTE  MAN 

"What  do  you  mean!"  Lawrance's  senses  were  no 
longer  thinly  fluctuant,  they  were  suddenly  in  spate. 

"Ewing  killed  Tofton.    Didn't  you  know?" 

"Why  did  he?" 

"He  lost  his  temper  with  him.  They  had  a  quarrel 
about  that  fountain-pen." 

Lawranee  laughed  loudly,  to  his  own  surprise. 

"Yes."  The  old  man  went  quietly  on.  "E wing  went 
to  Tofton 's  bedroom  some  time  after  midnight,  and  said 
he  wanted  his  fountain-pen.  They  both  got  angry. 
Tofton  hit  Ewing,  and  then  Ewing  got  hold  of  his  razor. 
Tofton  couldn't  have  been  looking.  Anyhow,  he  didn't 
step  out  of  the  way  quickly  enough." 

"He  couldn't  have  meant  to  have  killed  him."  The 
narrative  had  steadied  Lawranee.  He  found  himself 
critical,  observant.  He  could  see  Ewing  with  the  razor 
in  his  hand,  throwing  back  his  unimportant  little  head. 

"Well,  he  did,  anyhow.  They  suspected  Patsey  and 
me.  Got  to  know  we  owed  him  money.  Nobody  would 
speak  to  us.  Hard  lines  on  the  girls — little  Marjorie. 
And  that  Fred  Bovey — he  chucked  Doris,  and —  Well. 
Patsey  couldn't  stand  it.  Ewing  begged  her  not  to  go, 
but  she  would,  and  in  the  end  he  lent  her  some  money 
for  the  passage.  He  got  another  job  all  right,  you  know, 
— ^better  pay,  too.  Yes,  lent  her  money.  Said  he  could 
wait  for  it — " 

"Did  you  know  that  he'd  done  it?" 

"We  didn't  know/' 

"Why  shouldn't  Patsey  come  back  now?" 

"She  won't  come  back.  She's  heard  about  Ewing. 
She  wrote  that  she  was  all  the  more  glad  she'd  gone. 
Ewing  comes  to  trial  this  week." 

"Will  they  hang  him?" 


A  CHASTE  MAN  319 

"I  can't  tell.  They  oughtn't  to;  he  gave  himself 
up." 

"The  thing's  absurd!"  Lawranee  was  vehement. 
**You  can't  believe  that  he  murdered  Tofton  because  of 
a  fountain-pen ! ' ' 

"Well,  there  was  that  trouble  at  tea.  And  old  Ewing, 
you  know,  he  cared  about  Olga." 

Ewing  was  immediately  displaced  from  the  young 
man's  mind.  There  came  the  bitter  vision  of  that  girl 
with  the  long  eyes  and  the  rich  hair — lost.  Why  hadn  't 
he  written  to  her,  begged  her  to  wait  ?  But  that  wouldn  't 
have  been  any  use.  What  could  he  have  begged  her  to 
wait  for? —  Gone  utterly;  married;  mistress  of  a 
Canadian  farm-house.  What  would  become  of  her 
youth,  her  dreams,  her  spirit?  Surely  she  might  have 
had  something  better? —  That  fine  gold  of  her  youth 
and  her  virginity —  She  would  have  children.  Her 
children  and — 

"What  is  his  name?"  he  asked  imperatively. 

"Whose  name?"     The  old  man  sipped  his  whiskey. 

"The  man  who  married  Olga." 

"Oh;  JNIac — something.  I  forget."  Flynn  rum- 
maged in  his  pocket.  "I  believe  I've  got  the  letter 
here — " 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter." 

The  Mariner  took  out  a  letter,  and  Lawranee  saw  his 
own  handwriting. 

"Ah,  this  is  the  letter  you  wrote  to  Olga,  I  meant 
to  have  sent  it  on  to  her.     I  forgot ;  I  'm  sorry, ' ' 

"Don't  send  it  on.    Give  it  to  me." 

Lawranee  took  the  envelope,  looked  at  the  name: 
"Miss  Olga  Flynn" — then  he  tore  it  and  threw  it  in  the 
grate,    "The  children  of  Olga" — h^  applied  that  ter^ 


820  A  CHASTE  MAN 

rible  sentence  that  he  had  never  realized  as  terrible  be- 
fore— *'the  children  of  Olga  call  Mac — Mac  something — 
father."  Better  not  to  know  the  name.  It  would  be 
too  hard  to  the  touch.  Everything  was  hard  to  the 
touch  now. 

"Don't  trouble  about  the  other  letter,"  he  said 
sharply. 

''It's  a  pity,"  the  Mariner  absently  remarked  after  a 
pause.  ''Women — they're  always  suffering;  I  suppose 
they  deserve  it — except  her.  Sometimes  you  want  'em 
to  suffer,  sometimes  you're  glad  when  they  do.  You  wish 
they  would,  eh?  But  not  her.  You  see —  What  are 
we,  eh?  Only  a  lot  of  damned  bed-bugs,  after  all. 
Spawn.  That's  true,  ain't  it?"  He  rambled  on  for 
awhile,  jerkily  and  obscurely. 

"Your  life  is  done,"  thought  Lawrance.  "I  wish  I 
were  you."  Yes,  the  Mariner's  life  was  done — done 
for;  there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  Lawrance  began  to 
realize  his  impression  of  the  change  in  his  friend,  who 
was  his  friend  no  longer.  Friendship  had  dried  out  in 
the  poor  old  man,  dried  out,  with  much  else —  He  had 
not  offered  Lawrance  a  drink :  it  seemed  to  make  a  very 
great  difference  that  he  had  not  done  that.  His  eyes 
were  mean,  except  when  he  spoke  of  Patsey,  then  they 
had  looked  hurt,  like  a  hurt  beast 's :  but  later,  as  he  drank 
more  and  more,  when  they  were  not  mean  they  were 
maudlin.  Lawrance  saw  plainly  now  that  he  had  taken 
to  drinking  too  much,  and  drinking  alone — "blasphem- 
ing Bacchus."  He  remembered  a  favourite  saying  of 
his :  ' '  Some  people  aren  't  fit  to  drink. ' '  And  his  brand 
of  whiskey  now  was  a  cheap  Scotch  one.  That  familiar 
blackened  meerschaum  lay  broken  on  the  mantelpiece: 
of  course  there  was  nothing  much  in  that;  a  mere  coin- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  321 

cidence.  Probably  Marjorie  had  taken  the  pieces  out  of 
a  drawer,  been  playing  with  them.  Still —  He  was 
smoking  a  French  briar — a  pseudo-briar.  .  .  .  Lawrance, 
though  disillusioned  about  the  Mariner,  was  compassion- 
ate. Poor  old  man!  Why  should  all  his  simple  sea- 
soned pleasures  have  been  stripped  from  him?  Surely 
he  might  have  been  allowed  his  good  liquor,  taken  gen- 
ially, he  might  have  been  allowed  a  new  meerschaum, 
he  might  have  been  allowed  to  talk  and  play  cards  with 
his  wife  and  family,  and  to  say  scandalous  things  when 
he  was  in  the  mood :  to  talk  improbably  about  his  nautical 
experiences —  His  clothes  had  always  been  untidy  and 
old,  but  now  they  were  dirty,  they  had  lost  their  look 
of  individuality  in  defiance,  and  were  declassed  as  their 
oldness  and  untidiness  had  never  declassed  them.  He 
had  no  necktie.  Lawrance  remembered  the  gay  ties  he 
used  to  wear,  jauntily  knotted. 

"You  know — "  he  broke  a  long  pause,  **if  you  do  want 
any  money — " 

''Money?    Patsey  sent  me  some — " 

"Well,  if  you  want  any  more — at  any  time — " 

The  Mariner  did  not  answer.  He  drank  more  whiskey ; 
with  none  of  his  old  fastidious  gusto. 

"You're  drinking  too  much." 

"Don't  think  so."  Old  Flynn  was  not  in  the  least 
indignant.    "Always  have." 

"Not  in  that  way." 

* '  Your  fault — partly. ' '  The  Mariner  spoke  as  though 
answering  quite  another  suggestion.  "I  don't  blame 
you — mind  you,  I  don't  blame  you.  No  use  blaming 
anybody.  It's  the  way  it  all  went —  They  said  things 
about  Olga  and  you,  too — all  came  out;  talked  about. 
Bad  for  the  girl.    Well — Patsey. —    House  not  meant  to 


322  A  CHASTE  MAN 

be  without  her,  you  see — her  and  Olga.  Ewing — he 
had  great  respec'  for  Patsey,  great  respec'.  Even 
Deavitt — " — he  gulped — "respected  her.  About  Tof- 
ton,  you  see — huh — wouldn't  believe,  would  you,  that 
that  swine  struck  her — " 

' '  Good  God !    Why  on  earth  did  you  let  him  stay  on  ? " 

"Oh — money,  of  course,  and — er — other  things.  Did 
it  for  the  best.  Everything  for  the  best."  He  drew 
his  spare  frame  up  with  drunken  dignity  for  a  moment, 
and  then  collapsed.  "Turn  the  gas  lower,  won't  you? 
Hurts  my  eyes. ' ' 

"I'd  better  be  going." 

"I'm  going,  too."  Flynn  staggered  to  his  feet.  **I 
never  sit  here.  I  sit  in  the  parlour.  Stoopid  sitting 
there,  I  suppose;  might  as  well  be  in  my  grave —  Don't 
like  this  room.  You  can  go  away  if  you  like,  I'm  going 
to  the  parlour.  Bring  the  whiskey."  Lawrance  took 
the  bottle,  and  gave  his  other  arm  to  the  old  man.  "Yes, 
you  better  go.  I  'm  not  fit  for  you,  you  're  not  fit  for  me. 
Not  now.  Tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  like  seeing  you. 
You  understand.  No  offence. ' '  He  disengaged  his  arm, 
and  leaned  heavily  against  the  sideboard,  looking  hard 
at  the  ground.  "An  Irish  blackguard,  that's  what  I  am. 
D'you  think  she'd  have  left  me  if  I'd  been  any  good? 
Wasn't  any  good  to  her." 

He  walked  on  unsteadily  in  front  of  his  visitor,  out 
of  the  room.  Doris,  hearing  them,  came  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  hall,  as  Lawrance  was  putting  on  his  hat. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lawrance!  Aren't  you  staying  to  supper? 
It's  rather  late,  I'm  afraid,  but  it  won't  be  long." 

*  *  Thank  you,  Doris,  but  I  must  be  off  now. '  * 

He  was  watching  Mr.  Flynn  fumbling  at  the  door  of 
the  "parlour" — that  stuffy  cold  unused  room  in  which 


A  CHASTE  MAN  323 

he  had  interviewed  the  Police  Inspector.  He  noted  his 
old  friend's  short  coat  and  the  familiar  length  of  grey 
trouser  below  it.  So  the  Mariner  was  broken,  so  late. 
Doris  stepped  forward,  looking  ashamed,  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her  father. 

**Well,  ta-ta!"  she  said  in  her  high  strained  pitch. 
''You'll  come  again  soon,  won't  you — now  you  are  back 
— and  cheer  Father  up?  He  will  go  on  sitting  in  that 
old  parlour.  He — oh,  I  suppose  he's  all  right,  really." 
She  looked  ashamed  again.  "I  wish  you'd  come  soon," 
she  added  in  a  softened  tone.  She  blushed:  then  with 
a  belying  personal  appeal :  "He  isn't  happy  at  all ;  any 
one  would  be  sorry,  wouldn't  they?" 

Lawrance  put  the  whiskey-bottle  down  on  the  hall 
table  and  wished  her  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

CYPRIAN'S  Diary  arrived  the  next  day.  Law- 
ranee  did  not  open  the  package  till  his  work 
was  over  and  he  was  back  in  his  little  hotel 
in  Bloomsbury.  He  did  not  feel  much  curiosity  about 
the  Diary;  no  more  a,nd  no  less  curiosity  than  he  could 
feel  about  anything.  A  letter  from  his  sister  had  come 
that  morning,  too.  Lady  Petistree  and  Lady  Blanche 
were  leaving  earlier  than  they  had  planned:  Lady 
Blanche  seemed  more  bored  than  ever  by  St.  Franz: 
"She  says  it  may  have  cured  her,  but  now  it's  killing  her 
with  ennui."  So  Letty  would  be  back  at  the  end  of  the 
next  week;  Doctor  Meyer  had  approved.  She  wrote  ex- 
citedly: she  did  not  mention  Cyprian  Strange 's  death. 
Lawrance  had  read  the  letter  through  twice  running,  and 
answered  it  immediately.  He  said  everything  that  he 
ought  to  say.    It  was  impossible  to  be  interested.  .  .  . 

As  he  loitered  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel  a  young  girl 
passed  him;  her  hair  was  dark  against  her  white  neck. 
He  trembled,  thought  of  Olga,  of  her  hair  and  how  it 
might  have  fallen  against  his  neck,  his  breast —  So 
much  had  he  done  for  pride  and  honour,  for  decency 
and  ** the  right  thing"! 

There  was  half-an-hour  or  so  before  dinner.  He  might 
as  well  look  at  the  Diary :  it  was  in  his  hands.  He  went 
into  the  smoking-room,  chose  a  comer,  and  sat  down  in 
one  of  the  red  leather  armchairs. 

On  what  day  had  Strange  died?  he  wondered,  as  he 

324 


A  CHASTE  MAN  325 

undid  the  package.  He  turned  first  to  the  present 
month,  of  which  all  the  pages  seemed  to  be  blank. —  No, 
there  were  a  couple  of  lines  written  just  a  week  ago : 

/  am  fighting  hard.    I  may  live  and  not  die. 

That  was  the  last  entry:  seven  days  back.  And  now 
he  was  dead.  Such  things  were  common ;  in  time  of  war 
they  happened  thousands  of  times  every  day :  they  never 
struck  any  the  less  deep,  though,  and  there  was  never 
any  more  to  be  said.  That  kind  of  finality.  .  .  .  There 
were  three  young  officers  in  the  smoking-room  with  him, 
in  London  on  leave,  probably;  in  a  week's  time  perhaps 
one  of  them  .  .  .  well.  He  opened  the  Diary  at  the  be- 
ginning : 

"Though  one  he  fair  as  roses, 
His  beauty  clouds  and  closes, 
And  well  though  Love  reposes. 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well." 

Appropriate,  certainly. 

He  turned  the  pages,  many  at  a  time,  till  another 
quotation,  under  an  August  date,  arrested  him. 
Young  Strange,  it  seemed,  had  a  fancy  for  quoting. 

To-day  is  the  first  anniversary  of  this  darling  little 
war. 

"And  what  of  logic  or  of  truth  appears 
In  tacking  'Anno  Domini'  to  the  years?" 

The  words  of  Thomas  Hardy  smote  Lawrance,  words 
destroying  with  their  weight  of  passion  all  the  clever  lies 
of  all  the  clever  bishops  who  ever  lived. 

He  turned  back  to  the  date  of  his  arrival  with  Letty 


326  A  CHASTE  MAN 

at  St.  Franz.  His  eye  soon  caught  his  own  name — Mr. 
Lawrance  and  his —  The  word  wife  had  been  crossed 
out,  and  sister  substituted.  He  frowned  at  the  hand- 
writing, which  was  careless,  difficult  to  read ;  the  spelling 
was  bad,  too,  and  there  was  practically  no  punctuation. 
Lawrance,  from  his  Office  training,  had  a  precise  eye  for 
these  things.  Really,  to  have  to  go  through  the  whole 
Diary ! —  Again  he  turned  the  leaves.  Yes,  the  writing 
was  all  pretty  much  the  same.  "And  he  can — I  mean 
could — write  clearly  when  he  wanted  to.  That  last 
entry  and  the  quotations  were  all  right."  What  a  lazy 
chap!  Hang  it,  he  was  forgetting  that  Strange  was 
dead:  you  couldn't  get  annoyed  with  a  man  who  was 
dead. 

He  came  again  to  his  own  name,  and  read  on  with  dif- 
ficulty : 

Mr.  Lawrance  is  a  dry  stick,  hut  he  has  a  sister. 
Meredith  says  somewhere  of  one  of  his  heroes  ''But — he 
has  a  leg.'*  He  recurs  to  this  as  I  recur  to  Mr.  Law- 
rance having  a  sister — very  important. 

Strange  oughtn't  to  have  shown  him  this  Diary;  not 
a  decent  thing  to  do,  not  at  all.  He  skimmed  to  an  entry 
of  a  few  days  later: 

This  Lawrance  isn't  commonplace,  as  I  thought.  A 
little  scrutiny  reveals  that  he  has  a  really  passionate 
face — I  don't  mean  passionate  as  ''sensual,"  or  "sensu- 
ous," even,  though  I've  no  douht  the  fellow's  desires 
whip  him,  as  these  entertaining  Americans  say,  "all  the 
time." 

The  reader  blushed  with  embarrassment  and  annoy- 


A  CHASTE  MAN  327 

ance:  he  resented  utterly  the  intimacy  of  this.    But  he 
had,  of  course,  to  read  on. 

He  is  virtuous,  he  is  one  of  those  good  moral  ones,  he 
is  perfectly  continent.  *'  *So  am  not  1/  quoth  the  fool- 
ish scullion."  But  he  has  tremendous  store  of  feeling, 
and  no  sense  of  humour.  Not  stupid,  though,  as  you 
think  at  first.  Stubborn  as  the  devil,  honourable,  cer- 
tai^ily  a  gentleman.  One  of  those  people  who  are  un- 
questionably gentlemen  without  being  in  the  least  aristo- 
crats. I'm  not  so  much  of  a  gentleman,  maybe.  I'm  an 
adventurer  tinged  with  aristocracy.  By  God!  he  doesn't 
adventure,  he  keeps  within  doors.  Reserved  to  the 
limit.  You  couldn't  think  of  calling  him  by  his  Chris- 
tian name. 

What  was  Strange  ahout,  imagining  that  this  Diary 
could  possibly  be  published?  What  possible  public  in- 
terest. .  .  ?  *'He  must  have  passed  it  on  to  me  out  of 
sheer  malice — well,  perhaps  not  that,  but  as  a  kind  of 
*rag.' —  And  'stubborn.'  I'm  not  stubborn.  I'm 
particularly  reasonable.  Inge  or  Ralston  could  have  told 
him  that.  They  know.  *No  sense  of  humour.'  As  if 
I  were  one  of  those  people  who  never  can  see  a  joke.  A 
lot  he  knows  about  my  character.  I  was  quite  right  to 
mistrust  his  observation — extremely  shallow  and  all  off 
the  point.  *  A  gentleman ' —  Thank  you.  I  suppose  al- 
most any  one  can  tell  the  difference  between  a  gentleman 
and  a  bounder.  I  never  pretended  to  be  an  aristocrat. 
And  what  does  he — did  he — ^know  about  me,  anyhow?" 

He  has  a  sister.  I  mean  to  get  on  with  him.  ("Well, 
I  knew  that.")  He  must  be  very  devoted  to  her.  He 
has  a  wife,  I  discover — left  her  in  England.    Well,  there 


328  A  CHASTE  MAN 

are  many  reasons  for  leaving  wives  in  England.  How- 
ever, his  reasons  must  he  unimpeachable.  (Lawrance's 
cheek  had  a  deep  dark  flush.)  I  detect  that  the  sister  is 
one  of  those  who  have  been  brought  up  to  dissipate  her 
amorous7iess  in  harmless  flirtations.  (Lawrance  flushed 
more  heavily  still.  He  was  now  really  angry.)  Well, 
we  shall  see  about  that.  St.  Franz  is  not  an  Anglican 
parish,  and  a  good  thing,  too!  No  consumptive  should 
hesitate.    Of  course  I  shall  have  her. 

Lawrance  violently  closed  the  book.  He  would  not 
read  any  more.  If  Strange  had  thought  he  would  read 
any  more,  after  that — !  No  more  outrageous  insult — ! 
His  sister!  The  most  indecent  thing  he  had  ever  heard 
of  in  all  his  life!  He  slipped  the  book  into  his  pocket, 
and  went  at  once  to  wash  his  hands  for  dinner. 

His  occupation  for  the  evening  was  to  go  to  Kensing- 
ton and  find  lodgings. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  hotel,  it  was  early  yet,  but  he 
decided  to  go  to  bed.  He  was  tired:  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  If  he  slept,  he  would  not  be  thinking.  He 
wished  that  Nature  required  a  full  twelve  hours  of  sleep : 
then  there  would  be  practically  no  margin  to  his  Office 
work  and  his  meals.  He  undressed  slowly,  doing  noth- 
ing automatically,  but  concentrating  his  attention. 

He  could  not  go  off  to  sleep.  He  had  slept  heavily 
the  night  before ;  perhaps,  he  thought,  that  was  why  he 
was  now  so  wakeful. —  Olga —  "And  yet  not  I,  but 
Olga  in  me ' ' —  Oh,  of  course  he  would  get  over  it.  Peo- 
ple always  did — only  a  question  of  time.  He  must  con- 
trol himself,  he  must  use  his  will.  But  he  felt  so  defence- 
less, lying  there  in  the  dark.  It  had  been  a  mistake  to 
go  to  bed  so  early —    There  were  many  other  things  to 


A  CHASTE  MAN'  829 

think  of:  the  war;  Zeppelin  raids;  submarines;  how 
could  any  decent  man  keep  boxed  up  in  his  own  trou- 
bles, with  so  much  suffering  everywhere?  He  might 
ring  and  get  the  latest  edition  of  the  evening  paper. 
Then  Letty ;  she  was  coming  back,  she  was  cured.  That 
Diary —  Now,  at  last,  Lawrance  did  succeed  in  sepa- 
rating his  thoughts  from  Olga.  He  would  never  read 
any  more  of  that  Diary.  To  read  more  would  be  dis- 
honouring to  Letty — would  seem  as  though  he  suspected 
her.  At  what  point,  he  wondered,  had  Cyprian  Strange 
realized  that  he  must  give  up  ?  Would  he  have  acknowl- 
edged his  failure  in  his  Diary,  or  would  he  have  been 
too  much  of  a  coxcomb  for  that?  Lawrance  recalled  his 
dandified  ways,  recalled  the  things  he  used  to  say. —  He 
wrote  very  much  as  he  talked;  a  little  less  easily,  per- 
haps, more  with  an  eye  to  effect.  For  instance,  he  would 
never  have  said:  "I  detect  that  she  is — "  Bather  a 
stilted  phrase.  Lawrance  would  not  have  used  it  in  his 
articles.  What  good,  though,  were  his  articles?  He 
had  developed  a  facility  for  framing  sentences  of  very 
little  meaning,  that  was  all.  Did  he  ever  think? — 
Well- 
It  would  not  be  disagreeable  to  read  that  fellow's  ad- 
mission of  his  failure  .  .  .  but  no,  he  was  quite  right 
to  have  made  up  his  mind  not  to  read  any  more.  To 
have  made  up  his  mind. —  Strange  was  not  very  clever 
for  such  a  "squire  of  dames" — not  very  observant. 
Yes,  that  was  his  weak  point,  he  had  no  observation ;  no 
true  observation,  only  a  superficial  and  sensational  kind. 
He  must  have  recognized  that  he  had  been  altogether 
mistaken  about  Letty, — there  had  been  time  enough  for 
that, — must  have  seen  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  like 
that   "white    Saxon   girl" — ^that   young   woman   from 


330  A  CHASTE  MAN 

Leipsic  with  whom  he  had  had  an  affair;  an  affair  de- 
scribed, no  doubt,  in  detail  in  the  Diary.  The  man  had 
no  shame! 

What  should  he  do  with  the  Diary,  though?  That 
suggestion  of  getting  it  published — what  impertinence! 
He  would  destroy  it.  .  .  .  But  that  seemed  hardly  right : 
the  Diary  of  a  dead  man.  .  .  .  He  could  lock  it  up,  keep 
it  always  locked  up.  What  would  be  the  good  of  that, 
though  ? 

Perhaps  there  was  something  important  in  the  little 
book,  something  that  ought  to  be  read?  Well,  it  would 
have  to  go  unread,  then.  .  .  .  "It  will  have  to  go  un- 
read," he  reflected  again,  with  vehemence.  The  quality 
of  Lawrance's  determination  had  become  curiously  viti- 
ated through  its  repeated  unhappy  applications.  His 
determination,  his  will,  and  his  emotions,  that  he  had 
never  known  how  to  use,  had  kept  on  throwing  up  sullen 
little  hillocks  in  his  path. 

He  lay  awake  for  more  than  two  hours,  cut  by  one 
broken  thought  after  another.  How  little  everything 
had  led  to !  He  saw  that,  though  without  analysis,  with- 
out active  grasp.  The  only  way  in  which  he  could  keep 
himself  from  thinking  of  Olga  was  by  thinking  of  Letty 
and  of  Cyprian  Strange.  He  did  not  consciously  argue 
himself  into  continuing  the  reading  of  the  Diary,  and 
when  he  finally  got  out  of  bed,  turned  on  the  light,  and 
took  the  book  from  his  coat-pocket,  he  was  shocked  by 
surprise  at  himself.  But  it  had  become  impossible  to  lie 
awake  any  longer. 

.  .  .  and  a  good  thing,  too!  No  consumptive  should 
hesitate 

Something  about  Lady  Blanche  now: 


A  CHASTE  MAN  331 

Lady  Blanche  (He  spelt  the  baffling  handwriting 
slowly  out:)  rebuffed  me  this  afternoon.  I  received  her 
rebuff  with  imperturbable  sang-froid.  I  may  be  a  match 
for  her  yet;  if  only  I  were  well  I  would  be.  She  is  un- 
romantic  and  intelligent,  without  conscience,  but  still 
under  the  code — a  little.  Of  course  she  wants  to  excite 
me.  Not  undesirous,  not  undesirable.  Something 
should  be  made  of  her.  .  .  .  This  morning  a  letter  from 
the  Archangel,  with  a  sonnet  on  Lust. 

'  *  It  seems  the  fellow  is  obsessed  by  sex,  and  his  friends 
as  well.  'The  Archangel' !"  Lawrance  settled  his  pil- 
lows and  yawned.  Perhaps  this  Diary,  of  which  he  had 
made  so  much  matter,  would  send  him  to  sleep.  No 
allusion  to  Letty  on  that  page :  probably  she  would  not  be 
mentioned  again.  After  all.  Strange  had  not  seen  much 
of  her.  .  .  . 

''That  slandered  shape  that  is  Love's  very  kin. 
Interpreter,  fulfiller,  whose  name  is  writ 
Love's  brother  and  indissoluble  twin, 
Creator  of  forms  to  mould  Love's  spirit  in.  .  .  .'* 

*  *  Well,  did  Strange  think  that  ought  to  be  published  ? 
Disgraceful  stuff."  Everybody  knew  lust  had  nothing 
to  do  with  love.  .  .  .  His  eye  ran  on;  he  was  getting 
more  used  to  the  handwriting. 

There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  being  quite  open, 
for  saying  simply  "/  desire  you" — to  paint  the  pleasures 
of  love.  Girls  are  not  used  to  that  kind  of  attack.  They 
often  succumb  to  it. 

"This  is  odious,"  thought  Lawrance.  **What  kind  of 
girls  could  he  have  had  to  do  with?" 


332  A  CHASTE  MAN 

He  turned  the  page,  turned  three  or  four  pages,  barely 
glancing  at  the  entries.  Then  there  came  one  much  more 
clearly  written  than  usual,  much  less  closely,  standing 
by  itself  under  one  date : 

It  is  certain  now — the  best  cup  and  the  last. 

Lawrance  read  on,  read,  with  his  head  bent  to  the 
leaves,  every  word  of  the  writing  that  followed,  again  in 
close-set  lines.  Incredible,  it  was  incredible,  he  couldn't 
believe  it!  The  invention  of  a  coxcomb,  of  a  roue,  a 
lying  vain  blackguard! 

At  the  end  came : 

God,  I  love  her!  This  is  just  the  opposite  of  what  I 
had  expected. 

Then  the  rest  of  the  page  blank, 

Lawrance  read  it  all  through  again,  wincing  again 
under  the  alternations  of  cynicism  and  sentimentality. 
"Impossible —  Why,  Letty — !"  She  was  such  a  "nice 
girl,"  anybody  would  have  said  she  was  such  a  nice 
girl —  There  was  his  mother,  it  would  be  the  one  thing 
she  would  feel — but  it  was  impossible. 

She  is  better,  came  after  the  blank  space.  Her  good 
brother  will  no  doubt  take  the  credit  for  that.  She  is 
less  ''frivolous.'^  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Lawrance,  she  is  less 
frivolous!  She  is  no  longer  "the  lady" — not  in  that 
way.  She  will  be  cured.  *'You  go  to  life,"  I  told  her. 
"I  salute  you  from  the  arena."  Once  I  said  the  same 
thing  to  Lady  Blanche,  and  she  replied,  "Don't  say  such 
silly  things."  My  Letitia  never  could  have  answered 
like  that.    She  said  nothing;  she  looked  at  me.    I  know 


A  CHASTE  MAN  888 

she  does  not  love  me,  I  know  I  love  her.    It  is  this  that  is 
so  extraordinary,  when  you  think  of  everything. 

*' Quite  extraordinary,"  Lawrance  tried  to  reflect 
ironically.  **A  little  too  extraordinary,  in  fact.  Too 
improbable  even  for  your  little  essay  in  fiction,  Mr.  Cy- 
prian Strange." 

There  were  hardly  any  more  entries :  that  was  to  be,  it 
seemed,  the  final  outrage  of  Cyprian  Strange 's  pen — 
that  implication  that  he  had — could  have — cured  the 
"good  brother's"  sister.  One  or  two  more  isolated  lines, 
that  was  all: 

I'm  killing  myself,  hut  I  can't  resist  L.,  her  stored  up 
treasure.  .  .  .  She  will  have  something  of  the  attrac- 
tion of  a  widow,  as  well.  ...  7  think  of  Pater's  phrase, 

"sweet  usage"  .  .  . 

Lawrance  tore  the  Diary  from  its  cover,  struck  a 
match,  put  the  little  block  of  red-edged  sheets  into  the 
empty  grate,  and  made  ashes  of  them.  He  turned  off 
the  electric  switch,  went  to  the  window,  drew  the  blind, 
and  put  his  head  out  for  the  mild  breath  of  the  Septem- 
ber night.  The  moon  looked  at  him  like  a  pantaloon 
with  a  hooded  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  autumn  waned.  It  was  now  near  the  end, 
of  October,  and  Lawranee,  looking  out  on  to 
Fishgate  Street  from  the  Office  window  at  the 
closing  in  of  the  afternoon,  reflected  that  the  days  were 
just  about  as  short  now  as  they  had  been  at  the  time  of 
his  wedding  anniversary;  just  about.  Eight  months 
ago. 

As  he  went  on  with  his  proof -correcting  he  kept  urg- 
ing himself  dully  to  the  conclusion  that  all  had  been  for 
the  best.  The  news  from  Malstowe  that  morning,  that 
was  argument  strong  enough,  surely?  Letty  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  young  Phillips,  her  old  admirer, 
— in  the  Army  now,  and,  by  good  luck,  with  a  commis- 
sion. The  wedding  would  come  off  very  soon,  as  the 
bridegroom  would  be  going  to  France  with  his  regiment. 
** Quite  a  quiet  wedding,"  Mrs.  Lawranee  had  written, 
"but  nice  and  military,  like  everything  is  now."  She 
was  evidently  well  pleased :  preoccupied  by  the  pleasure, 
for  she  hardly  touched  upon  her  legal  affairs. 

Letty  he  had  not  seen  since  Lady  Petistree  had  handed 
her  over  to  him  in  London.  There  had  been  no  tea-party 
with  Lord  Burpham — no  exposures.  Lawranee  thought 
that  Lord  Burpham  regarded  him  now  and  again  with  a 
puzzled  look ;  he  could  not  be  sure.  How  little  that  mat- 
tered! The  brother  and  sister  had  lunched  together. 
**I  asked  him  to  send  you  the  Diary,"  she  had  said,  and 
he  replied :    * '  I  've  read  it. ' '    These  were  the  only  words 

334 


A  CHASTE  MAN  335 

on  that  matter  between  them ;  hers  had  not  shocked  him : 
he  had  known,  really,  that  the  Diary  told  the  truth. 
The  atmosphere  of  that  cursed  place  .  .  .  she  had  not 
been  herself  .  .  .  anyhow,  no  harm  had  come.  And 
Letty  was  cured.  Lawrance  repeated  to  himself  that 
he  had  good  reason  to  be  glad  that  he  had  gone  at  that 
time  to  St.  Franz.  Very  good  reason.  Yes,  in  spite  of 
that  affair  of  Strange :  that  was  outweighed.  One  must 
be  reasonable:  one  must  see  that  it  was  certainly  out- 
weighed. 

And  for  himself,  he  would  get  over  the  loss  of  Olga. 
Even  after  the  six  or  seven  weeks,  why,  it  was  much 
better.  Much  better.  The  pain  was  duller — generally; 
of  course,  sometimes — when  he  lay  awake,  when  he  woke 
— but  he  could  stand  it.    He  was  getting  over  all  that — 

"Yes,  but  what,"  came  snapping  his  reasoned  consola- 
tions, "but  what  are  you  getting  over  it  toV —  Muriel 
had  despised  him — Olga,  too;  even  Doris,  perhaps  .  .  . 
and  Mary  .  .  . 

Lawrance  concentrated  his  mind  fully,  for  a  time, 
upon  his  proof -correcting. 

Then :  It  was  the  worst  thing  of  all  that  could  have 
happened.  Of  all.  Marriage.  And  a  marriage  of  that 
kind.  Olga  could  not  have  been  in  love.  To  throw  him 
over  for  what  wasn't  the  finest! —  Three  thousand 
miles  away.  He  faced  the  event  defiantly.  Wasn  't  that 
the  better  way,  the  quicker  way?  he  demanded.  As  to 
what  he  was  getting  to,  let  that  come.  After  all,  there 
must  be  something  for  him  in  infinity.  You  couldn't 
follow  that  sort  of  idea;  all  the  more  reason  that  there 
might  be  truth  in  it.  .  .  .  The  Mariner  and  his  ideas 
about  Good  and  Evil  .  .  .  figs  and  thistles.  But  there 
was  more  in  the  matter  than  that.    If  you  could  only 


336  A  CHASTE  MAN 

get  at  causes  .  .  .  rules.  The  obscurity  was  impene- 
trable: still,  you  had  to  go  on.  Poor  old  Mariner! 
Lawrance  had  not  been  to  Glasden  Road  since  that  time : 
he  would  not  go  again,  not  yet.  Perhaps  later  on — but 
it  might  be  better  not ;  almost  certainly  better  not. 

From  the  Mariner  his  thoughts  passed  to  Ewing,  who 
had  committed  suicide  in  prison,  just  before  he  was  to 
be  tried:  how  he  had  done  it  had  not  been  published. 
No  doubt  the  warders  were  off  their  guard  with  poor 
little  Ewing — a  man  like  that  who  seemed  a  nothing ;  he 
had  given  himself  up,  too.  Ewing  could  do  that,  could 
kill  a  man,  give  himself  up,  and  then  kill  himself,  save 
himself  from  the  gross  dealings  of  the  Law.  And  he 
had  seemed  a  nothing.  He  had  ended  in  the  right  tragic 
way,  this  unnoticeable  little  bank-clerk:  a  great  catas- 
trophe. With  Lawrance  himself,  how  was  it,  all  this? 
Too  dull,  too  heavy:  shapelessly  dragging  days. 

He  had  talked  to  himself  of  "getting  at  causes"; 
couldn't  he  get,  at  least,  at  the  cause  of  his  own  present 
suffering?  Lawrance 's  Puritanism,  so  operative  against 
himself,  so  little  operative  against  others,  rose  up  to  con- 
vict him.  It  was  his  own  blame.  He  had  allowed  his 
wife's  jealousy  of  Olga  to  turn  him  to  the  girl:  that 
night  of  their  going  to  the  Music-Hall,  he  had  lapsed 
then,  he  had  blasphemed  his  spirit.  Everything  had 
followed  from  that  lapse,  from  that  blasphemy.  He  had 
done  wrong!  Why  hadn't  he  known  that,  fully,  at  the 
time?    Now  he  was  punished.    But  yet — 

*  *  Oh,  Mr.  Lawrance,  I  must  see  you  for  a  few  minutes 
when  you  're  done  with  those  proofs.  Really  believe  I  've 
hit  on  something  at  last — Israfel  and  I  between  us — ah, 
ha,  'None  sing  so  wildly  well !'    Don't  forget !" 

Mr.  Inge,  pale  and  obese,  waddled  back  hopefully  to 


A  CHASTE  MAN  337 

his  room  behind  the  plate-glass  door.  He  was  still  try- 
ing to  forecast  the  date  of  the  end  of  the  war,  though  ad- 
mitting that  it  seemed  harder  to  do  that  successfully  now 
than  it  had  in  February.  But  he  had  been  fairly  suc- 
cessful in  other  ways,  had  brought  off  some  lucky  hits: 
the  Zeppelin  raids  had  at  least  had  an  effect  upon  his 
prophetic  prestige.  His  ideas  teemed  no  less  than  ever: 
Lawrance  and  he  had  exactly  the  same  kind  of  talks  on 
"general  business,"  Lawrance  kept  staving  off  his  "in- 
spirations," or  winnowing  them,  in  just  the  same  way. 

"...  before  the  1st  prox. — we  shall  be  regretfully 
compelled — to  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  our  solici- 
tors." Old  Ralston 's  voice  came,  as  before,  with  its 
tired  insistence. 

Yes,  the  days  were  certainly  just  about  the  same  length 
as  they  had  been  in  February,  just  about. 

In  half-an-hour  or  so  Lawrance  would  be  going  back 
to  his  home  in  Chiswick.  His  wife  had  returned  the 
week  before;  she  was  there  at  home.  Getting  better. 
He  must  remember  to  be  very  kind  to  her;  she  was  not 
really  well  yet.  He  would  have  to  be  considerate,  tact- 
ful :  any  decent  man  would  be,  of  course.  Deavitt  would 
be  in  London  on  leave  soon :  he  would  ask  him  to  dinner, 
that  would  please  her,  he  had  told  her  that  Deavitt  was  a 
cousin  of  Lord  Burpham's.  Muriel  .  .  .  she  remained, 
she  was  his  wife.  Well?  And  what  could  any  one 
fairly  say  against  Muriel?  Many  a  man  had  a  worse 
wife.  "I'm  pretty  well  off,  really^ — oughtn't  to  com- 
plain— you  can't  have  everything — haven't  run  amuck, 
anyhow — might  be  much  worse — a  man  must  make  the 
best  of  all  he 's  got. ' ' 

The  blind  faces  of  his  virtues  were  about  him. 

"...  and  we  shall  be  glad  to  receive  a  cheque  from 


338  A  CHASTE  MAN 

you — in  settlement  of  our  account^— as  enclosed — 'as 
enclosed,'  you've  got  that? — at  your  very  earliest  con- 
venience. ' ' 

* '  Ready  now,  Mr.  Lawrance  ?  Won 't  keep  you  long ; 
know  you  want  to  get  back  home  early.  Of  course. 
And  how  is  Mrs.  Lawrance?  Better?  Ah,  that's  good; 
'm,  yes.    That's  good  news." 


SAPERE  AUDE 


A    000 


^33  277 


